


Work Yourself to the Bone

by MariusAngelicaSue



Category: Nomad of Nowhere (Web Series)
Genre: AU: Undertaker learns necromancy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, BAMF Undertaker, Brief self harm, Clarence actually speaks in this one, Considering almost the entire story is from the Undertaker's POV, Gen, His name is Morris you can't convince me otherwise, I'm just counting down till the rest of season 1 shuts down this entire story but w/e, Jokes and puns about the dead because they're required sorry, Lots more murder, Minor Character Death, Necromancer!Undertaker, Oh my has this become a character study, Sorry starcrossed but its true, The Undertaker is objectively a bad person, Tons of headcanons and backstory for the Undertaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariusAngelicaSue/pseuds/MariusAngelicaSue
Summary: Morris meets Clarence at age ten. He finds the book of necromancy at age twelve. He finally manages to translate the book six years later. By the time he's approaching thirty, he's wanted for use of dark magic and a (mostly) unrelated homicide.Here's the story of how an innocuous but intelligent undertaker becomes the first necromancer in over a century and wreaks chaos throughout Nowhere.





	1. Childhood Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris meets his best friend for life (or death, I suppose...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to whats-the-square-root-of-nine on tumblr for posting the idea: https://whats-the-square-root-of-nine.tumblr.com

Morris had been only ten when he’d gained a true fascination for the dead, and had met his first best friend. His father was working with his latest client--a woman and child that had died during the latter’s birth--and as such had no time to play with young Morris. He leaned on the edge of the windowsill, staring at the graves covering what he supposed was their front yard, giving a large and over exaggerated sigh in the hopes that it’d make him feel a little less bored; it didn’t. 

Hopping off the table he’d been sitting on, Morris made his way to the front door; maybe some time out of this stuffy house would improve things, or at least a slight change of scenery. He squinted at the slight breeze pushing some dust and strands of hair into his face as he began walking towards the collection of graves. He was familiar with the slabs of stone, had already memorized all the names on them, although he could never manage to remember each of the dates assigned to them, if there even were dates. Morris leaned against a simple, slightly round gravestone labeled “Parker;” After many bored visits to the resident graveyard, he’d had the time to test which was the most comfortable. Parker certainly wasn’t it, but it was the best in terms of the ones that also gave a nice view of the sunset as it slowly began to sink into the earth. 

Morris stared at the barren and dead landscape before him lit up with golden and orange light, his eyes half-lidded, before they caught onto a brief flash of movement at the edge of his sight. He jerked up in surprise, looking up at the dead tree on the hill to his left; he occasionally visited it, but his father had always recommended against it since he was worried of the dead branches falling and hurting Morris. He didn’t mind the orders, there wasn’t anything interesting with the tree anyways. 

However, that day things were different. He stared at the dark silhouette of the dead plant, and he saw the flash of movement again. 

It was the flapping of a piece of fabric, at the base of the tree. 

Morris quickly stood up, and began sprinting towards it. 

A year of carrying wood for his father’s coffin had strengthened the young boy’s body, and he was only a little winded by the time he’d made it to the tree to see what it was. However, he felt the breath leave his lungs when he realized what he was looking at. 

It was a body, leaned up against the side of the tree facing away from him. It seemed to be wearing a worn dress shirt and pants, parts of aforementioned shirt flapping in the wind. A hand was splayed out from inside one of the sleeves and Morris could see that it was nothing but bones. Taking a few more cautious steps, he moved around the tree to get a closer look at the corpse. 

It wasn’t anything he wasn’t already expecting, but the sight of the full skeleton sent a shiver of shock through Morris; his father had never let him see any of the bodies he worked on if he could help it, so now seeing this corpse before him without his father’s supervision or even  _ knowledge  _ sent both a chill and a thrill through him. 

The wind blew a little, and the skull tilted under the pressure, before finally falling off. The movement was sudden, and Morris hadn’t even realized how tense he’d felt, so seeing the skeleton move made him jump, much to his surprise. He stared at the skull on the ground in fascination, how the jaw had come off of it, and at that moment he noticed something... _ off,  _ about the bone. Taking slow steps towards it, Morris carefully lifted the skull off of the ground and turned it in his hands. 

And that was when he found it; a strange symbol carved into the bottom of the skull, right behind the jaw. It appeared to be an oval with a line through it and dots surrounding it, and wasn’t a symbol that he could recognize; he’d never seen something like it in any of his books his father brought him, and a part of him screamed with a desire to understand what it was. Hesitantly but with curiosity, he lightly brushed his thumb across the symbol, and if he focused enough he swore he felt some sort of electricity run through his fingers. 

_ “Why, hello there!” _

The voice ringing through Morris’ ears startled him, and he dropped the skull back onto the ground. Surprisingly, the decayed skull didn’t even get damaged from the impact. 

_ “Woah! Please, don’t be startled!” _

Morris opened up his mouth, ready to shriek at hearing the voice again. 

_ “Don’t scream!” _

The voice was so commanding that Morris couldn’t help but comply, slamming his hands over his mouth to physically stop himself. He took deep, careful breaths, trying to calm himself, his eyes focused on the skull. 

After a few beats of silence, the voice in his mind spoke up again. 

_ “Are you...are you going to scream, young man?” _

Morris thought for a moment, before taking a deep breath and frantically shaking his head. He swore he heard a sigh ring out through his mind. 

_ “That’s a relief. Now, what’s your name?” _

Morris swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. “M-Morris, but father calls me Mori.”

He heard a chuckle.  _ “Fun name. Mine’s Clarence. Now tell me, how did you find my body?” _

“You’re...you’re the dead man?”

_ “No one else around to speak, is there?”  _ The voice laughed a little again.  _ “The name’s Clarence.” _

“What...what are you doing here?” 

_ “Oh, nothing much, I suppose I was a bit bone tired and decided to rest here.” _

Morris giggled, despite himself. His father had  _ never  _ tried humor like that! “How do you talk, though?”

_ “‘Talk’ would be misleading,”  _ Clarence corrected.  _ “I guess you I just made some post-mortem preparations besides a funeral.” _

Morris laughed a little again, his fear almost completely dissipated, and picked up the skull again, along with the disconnected jaw. He frowned a little though, as he thought about Clarence’s offhand comment. “Um, do you... _ want  _ a funeral? Or at least, a burial?”

Clarence was silent for a moment.  _ “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. But, I’d like to stay with you, young Mori. You’re fun to talk to.” _

Morris smiled a little. “I’d say the same,” he commented, beginning to walk back to his home. “I’ll see if I can ask father to help you.”

Morris didn’t hear Clarence explicitly give thanks, but he was able to feel a warm sense of gratitude flow through his chest that he knew wasn’t his own. 

_ “Act-actually, there’s something else I want.” _

Morris stopped moving to look down at the skull in his arms. 

_ “I...don’t want your father to know about me, Mori.” _

Morris furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Why not? Father would be amazed to see a talking skull!”

_ “That’s the thing, Mori; I don’t think anyone but you can actually hear me.” _

“Why would you say that?” Morris frowned. 

_ “Mori...I’ve been dead up on this tree for a couple weeks now, and I’ve been yelling the whole time. Neither of you noticed.” _

Morris’ eyes widened. “How could that have happened? And...and how come I can understand what you’re saying now?”

_ “I don’t know Mori, I was thinking that the tree is too far away from your house to hear me, but now I’m not so sure.” _

Morris hummed, pursing his lips before turning Clarence over. “Do you think it’s this symbol on your skull, Clarence? I couldn’t hear you until I’d touched it.”

_ “Symbol?”  _ Clarence sounded confused.  _ “...Maybe, but even if that’s the case, and we can get your father to hear me, I’d really prefer not to.” _

“Why?”

_ “I don’t know him Mori, and I’m worried at how he’d react. Remember how you almost screamed just a few minutes earlier?” _

Morris hummed, thinking on it. “I...I suppose you have a point there. How about this: I’ll keep you a secret from father for now, but once you’re comfortable to let him get to know you, I’ll introduce you two, okay?”

_ “That...that sounds like a good plan, okay.” _

 

~~~

 

It was later that night, during dinner, and Morris knew that his father had noticed something off about his behavior. Morris didn’t particularly care about him noticing as he picked at his barely-eaten food; he’d been a bit tense ever since he’d found Clarence and hidden the skull in his room. He’d been thinking how to explain finding the corpse, since he assumed his father would be upset about it. 

He couldn’t just sit there imagining the possibilities, though. He needed to act. Morris sighed to himself. He had to do this; for Clarence. He cleared his throat, catching his father’s attention. 

“Um, father…” Morris began slowly, and his father’s eyebrows raised. “I found a body, on the outskirts of the graveyard, on the dead tree.”

His father’s eyes widened. “Did you touch it?”

Morris shook his head frantically. “No, no, um, it’s just that,”  _ Dang it, what should I say?  _ “I’d taken a look at it; it’s, it’s pretty decayed, the head was even missing. I was just thinking…”

His father’s eyebrows furrowed, and Morris took a moment to take a deep breath and calm himself. “I just felt...sad. The body, it was all alone, left to rot in the desert. Could you...could  _ we  _ give it a proper burial?”

His father’s rounded in shock for a moment, before a pleasant smile overtook his features. “Do you really want to?”

Morris nodded, wringing his hands together. His father stood up and walked to his son’s side, crouching down and placing a hand on his back. 

“Mori...did I ever tell you why I became an undertaker?”

Morris chewed on the inside of his cheek, and shook his head. 

His father tilted his head. “Well, it was for this reason. The dead deserve respect, and I’d always wanted to make sure they received it, no matter who. Who wants to be a nameless corpse in the middle of Nowhere, after all?”

Morris’ eyes widened, and his father continued. “I’m...glad, that you feel the same. Do you want me to start teach you, how to become an undertaker? We can start with the one you found.”

Morris smiled with disbelieving happiness, before nodding frantically. “I’d, I’d love to learn, father!”

His father laughed a little, before standing up. “You said the body was at the tree, you said? How about this: I’ll take it to the workshop while you finish dinner, and once you’re done I’ll show you the basic steps of measuring and building.”

Morris grinned, turning back to his plate as his father made his way to the door. “Alright, father!” He called after him just before the door closed. 

As soon as he could, Morris grabbed his plate of food, hopped out of his seat and ran to his room to pull out the skull underneath his bed. “Clarence!” He whispered excitedly. “I did it! Father’s going to make a coffin for you, and I get to help!”

He lifted up the plate of vegetables. “I also brought some food up, since I don’t know if you eat.”

_ “That’s great, Mori!”   _ Morris could almost hear the smile in his voice.  _ “And I can’t eat, unfortunately. I doubt it would have made me any less thin, though.” _

Morris giggled. “Alright, I’ll be heading back out to finish eating and then work with father, okay?”

_ “Of course, you go have fun.” _

Morris paused, smiling for a moment, before pulling the skull in close and giving it a tight hug. He briefly heard a noise of surprise from Clarence. 

“Father’s been so busy recently, I haven’t been able to be with him at all ‘cuz of his work,” he mumbled, unfurling from his hug and holding Clarence in front of him. “But now, thanks to you, I can be there  _ while  _ he works! I suppose you’re good luck, huh?”

_ “I suppose I am,”  _ Clarence mused.  _ “But remember, don’t tell your father about me, okay?” _

Morris smiled, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t!”

_ “I’m sure you won’t. After all, you know what they say, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.” _

Morris barked out a laugh, standing up. “Good one,” he grinned before closing the door and running back to the dining room. 


	2. A More Important Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris' quest for knowledge begins

Morris was twelve when he’d discovered something that would consume several of his future years to come. He and his father had been visiting the home of one of their clients--a young man that had died during an unfortunate farming accident. Morris wasn’t sure why they’d needed to visit the home of the family instead of letting them bring the body to where he and his father usually worked, but for some reason they’d requested it in their letter and his father assumed there were complications that needed to be accommodated. 

As it turned out, there actually were. 

“We can’t have our little boy buried in some empty coffin,” the mother explained, her voice strained and difficult to understand; it made Morris frustrated. “His personal belongings, we have nothing to do with them, and we want them to be in his coffin when he’s buried.”

Morris’ father pursed his lips. “So you want us to build the coffin with this in mind?”

The two parents nodded, and the client’s father pointed to the door closest to Morris. “His room is there, we’ve gathered all of his belongings in a box, so you can just take them back to where you work along with the...the body.”

Morris glanced at the door, and back at his father for permission, who gave a small nod of affirmation. Morris quickly and quietly pushed open the door and shut it behind him, leaving the adults to continue their talking. He was relieved about it, in all honesty; thus far he’d found the speaking and planning side of the job the most uninteresting and difficult, with everyone having to keep up so much professionalism that all of their voices and conversations were a dull monotone. Would it kill them to crack a joke? If Morris was talking about burying his father, he’d love to have someone give a little pun to break the mood. 

Sighing and shaking his head at the usual strange behavior of adults, he began to look around the room; sure enough, as the parents had promised, the room had been cleaned up and all the important belongings had been placed in what seemed to be a wooden crate on the bed. Curious, he walked up to it and began rummaging through each of the items. Most of them were unremarkable and predictable: a teddy bear, some sketches Morris assumed were drawn by the late son, a few old books, some sets of clothing, and a hand shovel for some reason. 

Morris had pulled out that last item when he noticed something at the very bottom of the crate. It was a dark blue book covered in golden patterns on the edges, with a strange blue flower and cluster of pale yellow circles on the cover. Morris raised an eyebrow at the sight, considering how much it stood out from the rest of the things in the box. He carefully pulled it out, noting how heavy and thick the book actually was, before opening it up and seeing what was inside. Much to his surprise, rather than the simple and childish illustrations from the other books, the sketches were much more sophisticated, detailed, and seemed to show...a very different kind of topic. He flipped through a few pages, seeing images of what he assumed were Y’dalans surrounded by strange jars and items, covered in odd symbols, and seemingly giving off strange glows and energies in all of them. His eyes widened as he took it all in. 

_ Is this book...is it about magic? _

A spark of curiosity lit itself in Morris’ chest, and he felt a burning desire to look more into the book, even if he couldn’t read what exactly it was saying. His head whipped back around to the door, and as he listened, he heard the conversation in the other room wrapping up, and he quickly put everything back into the box, making sure the book was at the bottom and out of sight before picking up the entire crate and walking back out of the room. 

“Are these all of the things you want to be buried with your son?” Morris asked, his voice level like the way his father had instructed. 

The parents seemed emotional at the sight of all of the belongings, and the father could only nod as his face contorted in sadness. Dismissing them with an even nod of his head, Morris walked outside and placed the box onto the back of the cart. He stared at the belongings for a bit, feeling giddy and excited to think about when he’d have a chance to read the book again, although he had to figure out a way to attain the book without his father noticing. He’d begun thinking of various ways he could sneak it out of the box depending on what his father could do, when a voice sounded from behind him. 

“You’re getting stronger, Mori.” Morris turned around to see his father exiting the house. He must have seen Morris’ staring at the box and assumed he was having a moment of pride. 

His father smiled. “I’m proud with how you handled that couple, Mori. Talking to the relatives, I consider it the hardest part of the job. After all, corpses don’t cry,” he laughed a little, although Morris could tell it was a little sad; His father was never as comfortable with making quips and jokes about the dead as Morris was, although he only discouraged doing it around the relatives of their clients. When it was just the two of them, he’d occasionally make some jokes of his own. 

“I just did what you asked, father,” Morris deflected the compliment. 

“I know you did, but still,” His father insisted, scratching the back of his head. “These situations, they can go haywire real fast. I’m glad this one went smoothly, and I really think your calm and respectful demeanor helped out a lot.”

His father walked up and placed a hand on Morris’ shoulder. “You’re a very mature boy for your age, you know that?”

Morris gave a small smile. “I know father, you’ve told me this before.”

“And I’ll keep telling you, ‘cause it’s still true!” He laughed, patting Morris shoulder before beginning to walk to the front of the cart. “Now come on, let’s get moving so we don’t need to sleep too late.”

 

\---

 

His father had finally fallen asleep, after working for a few hours on the newest coffin and by the time he had the opportunity to sneak around the house it was late into the night. Strangely enough though, Morris didn’t feel tired. He carefully pushed his bedroom door open, trying not to flinch at the creaking sound that emanated from it. Luckily his father tended to sleep as heavily as the dead, and his snoring from the other room remained as loud as ever. Morris quietly tiptoed through the room, making his way to the barely visible outline of the crate on the other side. He quickly crouched down next to it, carefully pulling each item out of the box and laying it next to him.

He felt the breath leave him for a moment when he finally caught sight of the golden lining again, barely catching and reflecting the light in the room. He gently lifted the book, brushing his fingers across the symbol on the cover, before hurriedly putting everything back where it had been and making his way back to his room. He lifted the cover on his bed. 

“Clarence!” He whispered. 

_ “What is it, Mori?” _

Morris reached his arm under the bed, waving it around until it finally came into contact with the now-familiar feeling of bone. He pulled Clarence out from underneath the bed, grinning and lifted the book so the skull could see it. “Look what I found!”

He heard Clarence gasp.  _ “Is...is that-” _

“It’s this Y’dalan book I found, and look!” He opened up one of the pages and pointed at a drawing of a person surrounded by strange, floating symbols of flowers. “I, I think it talks about magic!”

_ “Really?”  _ Morris nodded.  _ “Can you read it?” _

Morris’ smile faded a little. “Well, no. But, do you think I could learn?”

He heard Clarence hum.  _ “Well, perhaps. But I doubt it’ll be easy, Mori.” _

Morris grinned again. “Maybe not, but you’ll be there to help me, right Clarence?”

_ “Of course. I’ll try my best to help you. But now, shouldn’t you rest? We can begin working on deciphering the book in the morning.” _

Morris gave a small groan. “I guess. I might actually have to wait until we’ve finished this latest job. Oh well,” he sighed to himself as he moved Clarence back under the bed, next to the book, and climbed onto bed. “Good night, Clarence.”

_ “Good night, Mori.” _

 

\---

 

Morris rubbed at his wild hair in frustration; the darn thing kept getting into his face and making it harder to see what was in the book. 

Not that he could understand what was even  _ written  _ in the book, anyway. He growled a little to himself. 

_ “Easy there, Mori. We don’t want you tearing apart that book, now do we?” _

“I, I know Clarence, it’s just-” he sighed, hitting the desk with his forehead. “I can barely understand this! I’ve finally gotten the chance to start figuring out the book, and yet I haven’t had any progress after a whole  _ week!  _ What am I supposed to do?”

_ “I, I don’t know Mori, I know just as much Y’dalan as you do.” _

“Not to mention, the book’s just confusing!” Morris flipped through the pages. “We saw some pictures of a Y’dalan with some skeletons, which made me think  _ necromancy,  _ but then what’s with this flower everywhere? It’s in almost every drawing, there’s a flower in the border and on the cover, and there’s even a whole  _ chapter  _ about this flower!”

He flipped to the first chapter of the book, with a large drawing of the flower he’d begun to despise seeing and a bold writing next to it with what he assumed was the title. He rubbed his face, sighing to himself. 

_ “Have you considered asking your father about this?” _

“Are you kidding?! He’ll be furious if he learned I kept this book! Besides, do you really think he’s secretly known how to read Y’dalan text this whole time?”

_ “Maybe you don’t have to reveal that you still have the book. You could draw something from the book, like one of the symbols, and ask him about it.” _

Morris pursed his lips, thinking for a moment on Clarence’s words. “That’s...not a terrible idea, I suppose. I’ll...I’ll have to think on it.”

Sighing, Morris stepped away from the desk, grabbing both Clarence and the book and shoving them beneath his bed. “I need to go help father now, we can continue this later.”

_ “Good luck, Mori.” _

 

\---

 

“Mori, is something wrong? You seem distracted.”

Morris looked up from his collecting of wood to stare at the concerned expression of his father. His lips pressed into a thin line; he’d been considering Clarence’s words the day before, and now that his father was so close he couldn’t help thinking about it. He asked himself he was really going to do this, before sighing. “It’s just, father, there’s been something on my mind lately.”

His father tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “Oh really? What is it?”

Morris sighed, putting down the wood in his hands and pulling out a scrap of paper from his pocket. On it was a small doodle of the flower he’d seen so much that he’d begun finding it in his dreams. “I saw this flower on the cover of one of the books we’d buried with that young man a little bit ago. I don't recognize it, and was wondering if it was a real species or not. The drawing was originally blue, with what I assume was clots of pollen coming out of it.” He lifted it so his father could see. 

He narrowed his eyes at the drawing, scratching the thin beard on his chin as he hummed in thought. “That’s a nice drawing there, Mori. If I had to give my couple of cents, I’d say that looks a lot like a Nigromantia.”

Morris frowned. “A what?”

“A Nigromantia flower. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised you don’t know about them; They’re not around these parts, but they were seen a lot down south. I remember, they had a lot of cool stories around them.”

“Like what?” Morris tilted his head

“Well, the Nigromantia is interesting, ‘cause it’s able to form a symbiosis with a lot of different species of plants. You know what a symbiosis is?”

“It sounds familiar, but I don’t know the details.”

“Think of it like a friendship, or partnership between two animals or plants. They help each other better survive. Anyways, the Nigromantia gives food and water to nearby plants, and they help the Nigromantia in turn. Funny enough, back in the day, people would see supposedly dead or dying plants revived when a Nigromantia’s nearby, and thought it could revive the dead around it. It’s a famous legend, and some people still believe it. One time, I got a special request to bury someone with a bouquet of Nigromantias. They’d brought it over from the south just for that purpose.”

Morris’ eyes widened. “Really? How does the Nigromantia do that?”

“The food-and-water-giving?” 

Morris nodded eagerly.

His father chewed on his lip, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, I don’t know about that. Had only heard about it a couple times when I was young, and back with that client and the bouquet. Maybe sometime we’re in town can see if we can find a book about plants, and we can learn about it together. How about it?”

Morris gave a wide smile as he shoved the piece of paper back into his pocket. “That sounds great, father! Thank you so much for the help!”

He glanced over at their house. “Do you need any other help once I finish carrying this wood?”

His father shook his head. “Nah, that’s about all I need for now. Be ready if I need to call you back out again though, okay?”

“Of course, father!” He called as he ran inside, rushing through the house excitedly. 

“Clarence!” he whisper-yelled as he burst into his room. 

_ “What? What is it?”  _

“I figured out the flower, Clarence!” He lifted the cover and excitedly whispered at the skull. “You were right, he knew! It’s a Nigromantia flower, father said! He said people thought it could bring the dead back to life!”

He heard Clarence gasp.  _ “You don’t mean-” _

“The book! It’s really about necromancy!” Morris’ cheeks were beginning to feel sore from all the smiling he was doing. “Father said we can try and learn more about the flower the next time we stop by town. I bet if we learn this book, we could bring you back, Clarence!”

_ “That, that’s incredible! But, what about the rest of the book?” _

Morris pursed his lips, his mouth suddenly morphing into a frown. “It’ll still be hard, but now I’m sure we can figure this out! I’m not going to give up on you, Clarence! Even if I have to learn to speak Y’dalan to do it!”

He heard Clarence laugh.  _ “You’ll only need to read it, Mori. There’s no need to speak it.” _

“Not  _ yet, _ ” Morris smiled, lifting a finger. “Who knows what we’ll need for this book?”

_ “Hm, I suppose you have a point there,”  _ Clarence chuckled. 

“Mori!” Morris abruptly stood up as he heard his father’s voice call out for him. “I’m sorry, but there’s one more thing I need to ask of you! Could you come out here real quick?”

“Of-of course, father! I’m coming!” He glanced back at Clarence under the bed, lowering his voice and cupping a hand around his mouth. “We can talk more later!”

And with that, Morris ran back out of the room, feeling rejuvenated with excitement at just where this book could possibly take him from here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nigromantia" is what I believe to be an old latin word that meant "black magic", before turning into "Necromantia" and eventually "Necromancy"
> 
> Sorry if my random worldbuilding/headcanoning of the Nigromantia felt a little too expositiony-ish, tell me if you think so.


	3. Secret's Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His father sees the book

It had only been a year later when Morris had suddenly found himself a little more alone. 

His father had been doing less and less work over the course of that previous month, and as such was spending more time at home. While Morris wondered a bit as to why, he was more occupied with feeling annoyed at the whole situation. If his father had just tried something like this years ago, Morris would have been overjoyed to spend more time with him, but now it seemed he had a few too many secrets with him. He had to be more careful with talking to Clarence and pulling out the book in general; he hated it. 

Not like he’d made much progress, he tried reasoning to comfort himself. Trying to translate it was as much a brick wall as it had been before. The research he and his father had done with the Nigromantia flower had helped a little, although the only Y’dalan word he was completely certain of was the name of that flower (seemingly called a Za’Wylt). 

As such, he’d begun spending some of his time looking into other things, such as Clarence’s... _ unique _ condition. He’d tried doing it when they’d first met, but being only ten, Morris’ imagination had been unfortunately lacking. However, now at the ripe old age of thirteen, he had many experiments and questions regarding Clarence’s life-after-death that he was dying to try, and if he wasn’t going to be making progress on that book, then at least he’d make progress on something else. 

The book had helped a little, in that regard. Now with some of the information it provided, he’d been able to at least somewhat recognize the symbol carved into the back of Clarence’s skull; the oval in the center seemed to be a Nigromantia flower petal surrounded by circles representing pollen (he’d looked it up—the Nigromantia provided resources to other plants via their roots, or a special pollen if needed, probably explaining why circles kept showing up in the book). Why it was specifically a petal he didn’t understand, although it could possibly be related to the limitations of Clarence’s seeming immortality. 

Morris chewed on the inside of his cheek, tapping his chin with the end of his pencil, before writing down his thoughts in his notebook. A few weeks ago he’d asked his father to buy a blank book for him for this exact question, and he was still thankful for that decision; The questions rushing through his mind were far too many to count, he needed something to keep track of them. He’d begun enjoying this time on his own, in his quiet room working on the book, the only sound the slight scribbling of ink on paper. And of course, one other voice. 

_ “What if we made cuffs, but out of human hands? Would we be able to call them handcuffs? I bet that’d be funny. Oh, but when would we even  _ need _ something like cuffs…” _

He glanced over at Clarence, who was sitting underneath the bed like usual; Morris was careful to never pull out both the book and the skull at the same time, as hiding things from his father in a hurry was much more difficult with both of them out. 

It wasn’t a problem for either of them, luckily; where Clarence was didn’t seem to stop the two of them from having a conversation. At the very least, it didn’t impede Clarence in any visible way. 

That was something interesting Morris had found about the skull: walls didn’t seem to impede the mental connection the two of them had, only distance. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Morris, who had to verbally communicate with the skull. However, even if it was just a one-way connection, it was nice in situations like this, where Morris could listen to Clarence ramble while he worked. He often muttered to himself, thinking up different jokes and wordplay while Morris worked. Occasionally Morris would pipe in to give an opinion about Clarence’s suggestions, but many times he simply let Clarence speak to himself, curious at where the topic would go. Clarence had a habit of letting his mind wander, and it was interesting to see where exactly he’d end up. 

_ “Where would you connect the handcuffs, anyways? By the wrist bones? How do they lock? How do they  _ un _ lock? How-“ _

Clarence was suddenly cut off when Morris heard the door opening behind him, and he felt his heart stop.

“Mori?” Morris quickly shut both books before him and held them close to his chest as he whipped his head around to his father’s voice. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was meaning to ask you-“

Morris’ father cut himself off with a blink, staring at the scene before him. It was at that moment that Morris realized how suspicious he must look, his shoulders hunched and his eyes wide, clearly hiding something with his body. “Um,” his father furrowed his eyebrows. “Am I interrupting something?”

Morris swallowed for a moment, before taking a breath and speaking. “Um, no, no, you’re not, father. What, what is it you wanted to say?”

His father’s worried expression only grew deeper, and he slowly began making steps towards Morris. His face was lit up by the candle on Morris’ desk, and he looked unusually pale. Morris felt himself tense up as he approached, frantically thinking of how to hide the books held up against his chest. “Is something wrong, Morris?”

“It’s nothing!” Morris nearly yelled, holding the books close, but by then it was too late, and his father was staring with wide eyes over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the cover of the necromancy book. 

“What,” his father started slowly. “Is that, Morris.”

“It’s-it’s, it’s…” Morris struggled to explain himself, and before he could let out a complete sentence his father reached out a hand and grabbed the book. Morris let out a surprised yelp, his arms flailing to try and catch it before his father had pulled it out of his reach. 

“What-what is this?!” he flipped through the pages of the book, seeing the drawings, the Y’dalan, and a few the little notes Morris had already written on the side. “Where did you get this?!”

“I...I-”

“ _ Don’t  _ lie to me, Morris,” his father looked Morris straight in the eyes, and anything dishonest that had been forming in Morris’ throat died instantly. 

He cast his eyes down to the floor, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears almost deafening. He screwed his eyes shut. “...I found it in that crate of possessions from one of our clients.”

“What!” The volume of his father’s voice made Morris jump a little, and he looked up to see his father’s face contorted in both anger and shock. “You stole this from one of the dead?! When did this happen?!”

“L-last year,” Morris stammered, wringing his hands together. “Are-are you going to put it back?”

“Put it back?” His father narrowed his eyes in confusion. 

“It was supposed to be buried with him.”

His father’s eyes widened a little, before he let out a loud and frustrated groan, running a hand across his face. He gave a deep sigh, rubbing his temple before he continued. “...No, then. It’d be more disrespectful to dig him back up.”

Morris felt his shoulders sink in relief, although the feeling was short-lived. “Can...can I have the book back?” he hesitantly reached to grab the book again. 

His father jerked it away. “Hold on now Mori, that’s not the only issue here.”

Morris flinched away, looking back up at his father, who flipped back through the book again. 

“If, if this is what I think it is, then it’s dangerous to have this book.”

“What-”

“It’s  _ magic,  _ Mori!” his father’s expression changed, showing a mix of anger and worry as his voice rose. “Magic is  _ outlawed by the king!  _ How do you think the Nomad of Nowhere has kept the highest bounty for over a  _ hundred years _ ?!”

“Fath-father, I swear, I just wanted to read the book! It’s so  _ interesting _ ! I-I can’t even cast magic, anyway-”

“ _ Still,  _ Mori, holding this book is  _ dangerous _ ,” his father’s face scrunched in concern as he rubbed his temple. “ _ I  _ may know that you can’t cast magic, but if a governor or the don sees you with this book, they’re not going to believe that! You’ll be tried all the same!”

“I-I’ll keep it a secret dad, I swear! I won’t tell anyone!”

“I know you think that Mori, but we can’t take risks like this!” His father’s voice was growing more desperate. “What if you end up in trouble, I might not be there to help you!”

Morris frowned. “What do you mean-”

“I’m worried about you, Mori! I, you, you can’t-”

His father was suddenly interrupted in his rant by a fit of coughing, so severe he bent in on himself and dropped the book. Morris scrambled over to grab it, holding it close to his chest and slowly moving away from his father, who was still in the violent coughing fit. After a few more seconds it finally began to subside, each cough growing smaller than the last, until finally his breathing had slowed, his figure still hunched over. Morris peeked around from the book (that he’d only just realized had been covering his face), hesitant to speak up. “F-father?”

His father still wasn’t looking Morris in the eye, his hands on his knees and his gaze still downcast at the wood floor. “Mor-Morris, there’s something I’ve needed to tell you. I’m sorry, I was too afraid to say before.”

Morris’ eyes widened, and he moved over to help his father up. It was only then that his father met Morris’ gaze; he looked so tired. 

“Morris, I...I’m sick, and it doesn’t look good.”

Morris flinched back in shock, refraining from touching his father. He didn’t seem to be offended by the motion, simply sighing and leaning back on a chair. 

“I don’t know how long I’m lasting, Mori, and we need to prepare for the worst. I want to make sure you can take care of yourself, if you really have to. And that  _ book _ -” he jabbed a finger at the book in Morris’ arms. “Isn’t helping your chances.”

Morris held the book more tightly to his chest. “What-what should I do?”

His father’s face screwed tight in pain and frustration. “I...I don’t know.”

 

\---

 

Morris had a lot less time to read the book after that, partially due to his father’s request and partially due to how little time he had now. In less than a week, his father found himself practically restrained to the bed, and Morris could only enter the room if he wore long clothing, gloves, and a piece of cloth tied around his mouth. He’d get worried glances from the clients when only he showed up to take the bodies, and he’d lie and tell them that his father worked at home, while Morris simply went to pick up their clients. 

In reality, Morris quickly found his workload much denser now that he was essentially running the business to support the both of them. He’d moved Clarence to the workshop, as the hammering of nails and the sawing of wood was loud enough to make sure his father didn’t hear their conversations through the walls. 

Occasionally a doctor would arrive to speak with his father, who for some reason insisted they speak on their own. Morris knew that was a bad sign, and he didn’t even have to see his father’s somber expression and the shake of the doctor’s head to know it.

 

—-

 

It was several months later when Morris found himself with no option. He stared at the door of his father’s bedroom, not sure if he wanted to open it or not. 

_ You need to do this, Mori,  _ he told himself. He’d already talked to Clarence about it, and he knew couldn’t stay in front of the door forever. He was all ready: he had his gloves on, the coffin had already been built, and a grave had already been partially dug out. Taking the familiar piece of cloth out, he tied it around his face and covered his mouth and nose; hopefully it’d help with what was coming. 

Sighing to himself, he gently pushed the door open, a rotting and awful stench practically slapping him in the face the moment he did. He stared at the large body on the bed, a few flies already whizzing around it, and began to get to work. 

His father was one of the tallest people Morris had ever known, and as such his body was large, but Morris was strong. It didn’t take to long to carry the decaying corpse outside, so the majority of the day was spent finishing digging up the grave. After that, he spent a little more time that he had was nailing a couple of pieces of wood together to stick into the mound of earth above his father. He wouldn’t use any more effort for his grave, he thought to himself as he patted the wood one last time and walked back into his home. 

It took another two days for him to leave the house as he tried his best to wash out the stench of sickness from his father’s room, and it took another couple of weeks for Morris to realize just what situation he was now in. His father, he was really gone. Morris knew he could make it on his own, he’d already learned enough to manage his father’s job, but…

What was there for him to do now? What would drive him day to day to keep working, like his father had always told him?

_ “You’re what I work for, Mori,”  _ he’d always say.  _ “Taking care of you, it’s why I work every day.” _

So what did Morris have?

…

Well...

There was really only one answer to that, wasn’t there?

Especially with no father to keep secrets from and impede his progress, that book was all he had left. Slowly pulling it out from under his bed and blowing off the dust it’d collected in the past few months, he flipped through the pages depicting images of walking skeletons. 

_ I’m going to learn this,  _ he promised himself, narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar words peppered across each page.  _ No matter what it takes.  _

_ For Clarence.  _

_ And...for father, now, it seems.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really enjoyed writing Morris' father and was sad to see him go, but you know what they say about time's arrow
> 
> While I consider these first few chapters pretty much all headcanons and backstory, the next chapter is where the AU stuff begins happening, and I'm super excited for that


	4. The Y'dalan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to set the ball rolling

It took a few more months for the nearby towns to become accustomed to Morris’ presence. He more quickly adjusted, learning to ignore the sidelong glances he’d receive from his clients when he was the only one who arrived and the worried mothers who thought he couldn’t take care of himself. However, in a couple weeks, those people eventually silenced themselves when it became clear Morris was handling himself well enough on his own. Not to mention, Morris could clearly see that they were somewhat afraid of him, especially more as time moved on. 

Morris had always found the people around him far too sensitive with the topic of death since he was young, but considering he’d been speaking with a skull for nearly four years now, he supposed that he was also more desensitized to the concept. But it seemed that the people of the town hadn’t known that, and the way he so easily took his father’s job put off many of them. A part of Morris wondered if some of them would even request his services when the time came for a body to be taken care of. 

Morris didn’t care for them. If anything, it’d just give him more time to work in the future. 

Now with the home all to himself, Morris had begun burying himself in the strange Y’dalan book, trying to absorb as much knowledge as possible. He’d begun filling pages of his notebooks with charts of repeated Y’dalan words and their possible translations. He’d find simple sentences and try to break down their grammar from the little vocabulary he knew. 

He’d stay up at night working, and soon enough dark circles began to develop underneath his eyes. Even after Morris crashed after a week of work and slept for more than twelve hours, the dark circles remained stubbornly in place. At that point it became clear the bags were there to stay, but Morris didn’t mind; Clarence even made a quip about how the two of them were matching now. 

However, aside the new appearance, Morris was finding himself with very little progress made on the book. He hadn’t managed to get a full sentence completely translated, and he felt unsure of any translation that he had, even in chapters like the introduction that was all about one word he confidently knew. 

It wasn’t until a week after his fourteenth birthday did Morris finally get what he was looking for. 

He’d seen the Nowhere storm approaching another town a little far off, and had been spending the better part of the week preparing his house in case it decided to pass by. 

Sure enough, his preparations came in handy, as even though the storm was relatively light, the winds and piles of sand weren’t giving the slightest ounce of mercy to his weak little cottage. He was sure without the reinforcements his roof would have collapsed inward from the winds. Slipping the board into the lock of his window, sand finally stopped blowing into the house at an unmanageable degree. He looked at the main room, covered in a small layer of sand, and gave a huff of frustration through his bandana. He’d clean it up once the storm had passed. 

He turned his head to listen to the winds outside, trying to hear any other noises. When none other came, he gave a small sigh of relief; this storm seemed to be too small to accrue any lightning, and that meant that there likely weren’t any storm rhinos around, or at least very active ones. 

_ “How long do you think this storm will last, Mori?”  _ Clarence sat on the table, illuminated under the lantern.

”I don’t know, Clarence. It’s been a long time since a storm has passed by these parts, and back then I was so young my father had to take care of everything.”

_ “Well, it all seems secure for now. How about we read that Y’dalan book to pass the time?” _

“Don’t worry, Clarence, I will,” Morris responded, walking to the other room and grabbing the book from his desk. “I’ll be reading it by the door though, just so I can respond quickly in case something breaks.”

_ “Sounds reasonable. What are you going to work on today?” _

“I’m not sure yet,” Morris walked back into the room and sat down at the table, the book in his hand. “I’ve been thinking of looking more into the last chapter-”

Morris’ sentence was abruptly cut off as three loud knocks suddenly emanated from the door. It sounded desperate, with the kind of sound someone would put their whole arm into making. Morris froze, staring at the doorway, standing in the chair. 

“Did...did you-”

Morris felt himself jump a little as the banging on the door interrupted him again.

_ “An intruder? Do you think it’s someone working for the governor?” _

Morris swallowed, silently hoping that that wasn’t the case. Slowly rising out of the chair, he made his way across the room to grab the shovel leaning near the doorway. The person on the other side continued beating on the poor wood of his door.

Standing next to it, the shovel tightly clutched in his hand, Morris took a deep breath, and slowly unlocked and turned the doorknob. 

The result was instantaneous. Whoever was on the other side had been about to knock again, and the door suddenly opening underneath him caused him to stumble through the doorway and into the house. Morris quickly pushed against the storm winds to close and lock the door again, before whirling around to face the intruder. 

He immediately froze as he was met with the sight old man with his palms placed on the ground, struggling to get up himself. Morris knew that he should help the man up, just like his father had always told him, but something kept him grounded to where he was. 

Perhaps it was the notably darker skin on the man. Or his red and golden robes. Or the pointed ears that Morris could see behind the few bunches of white hair on the sides of his head. 

_ “His eyes...Mori, he’s…” _

_ He’s Y’dalan. _

The old man had managed to gather himself enough to sit up a little on the floor, turning to look at the room a little until he finally noticed Morris over his shoulder. Seeing the man’s eyes widen, Morris realized how he must look, pressed up next to the door and large shovel in his hands. 

The old man raised a palm and gave a small smile to quickly replace the expression of fear he’d just had. “Oh, I...I’m sorry, I must have scared you badly there. I mean no harm, promise.”

Morris’ grip on the shovel tightened a little, before he forced himself to take a deep breath.  _ He’s just an old man, he poses no threat to you.  _

His posture relaxing, Morris let the shovel lean on the wall behind him, before finally bending out and offering a hand. “I’m sorry for making you fall there, sir.”

The old man gratefully accepted the hand, scratching the back of his head with the other and giving a nervous laugh. “It’s no worries, I’m sure it must have been frightening, with the way I was hitting the door. I just wanted to be out the storm, I apologize.”

Morris shook his head. “No need to be sorry, I understand.”

The old man looked around the room, and it was at that moment that Morris realized that the table right behind the old man was holding Clarence and the book side by side, and it took all his effort not to take a sharp intake of breath at the realization. Luckily, the old man hadn’t spotted the objects, simply taking in the reinforcements Morris had applied to the doors and windows. 

“Are your parents not home?”

Morris glanced over at the old man in surprise. “What? Why do you ask?”

“Well, just judging on how  _ you  _ were the one answering the door and seemed so scared to do so, it seemed that you’d been left alone.”

_ “I suppose that’s one way to say it,”  _  Clarence quipped, and Morris pointedly ignored him to give sheepish smile to the old man. “I...I guess you’re right; my father’s sick, and has had to stay in the town a little farther away. It’s no worry though, I can handle being here on my own.”

The old man frowned. “And your mother?”

“She died when I was a baby.”

“Oh,” the old man looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be, sir. May I ask your name?” Morris tried his best to keep his gaze on the old man as he desperately tried to figure out a way to sneak Clarence and the book out of the room without the man noticing; after all, he wasn’t sure how he’d react, even if he was Y’dalan. 

“It’s Kerr,” he held out a hand.” And how about yours?”

“Morris,” he shook it. “You can stay here until the storm passes.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind. Don’t worry, I won’t impose on-“ Kerr cut himself off as he turned around, and spotted the two objects on the table. His hand that had been rubbing his head froze in place, and his arm remained raised as he stared at them. Morris’ shoulders tensed, trying to think of a way to explain them, but just as before with his father, nothing came up. 

Eventually, Kerr turned around to look at Morris again, his eyes still wide. “Are...are these yours?”

The words still caught in his throat, Morris hesitantly nodded. 

_ “What are you doing?” _

Kerr’s eyes slowly moved back to the skull, his eyebrows furrowing, and lowered his arm. He carefully made his way to the table, glancing at the cover of the book before reaching over a hand at Clarence. 

_ “Mori!” _

Morris had been frozen to the spot, but the moment he saw Kerr’s fingers brush up against the skull and move his hand underneath to pick it up, he was snapped out of whatever stupor he’d been in. “W-wait!”

But it was too late. Kerr had picked up the skill and turned it over in his hands, and Morris could just barely see the way his eyes widened at the carving on the bottom. Morris held his breath, not sure what was going to happen next. 

_ “Can...can he hear me?” _

If Kerr did, he didn’t give any response, simply brushing his hand over the simple, feeling the grooves in the bone.

_ “Did he touch the symbol? I can’t tell. Mori, did he touch the symbol?” _

“Are you...studying necromancy?” He murmured. 

Morris flinched his hand back, which had been reached out to grab Kerr’s robes. “I...I didn’t put that carving there.”

Kerr looked up at Morris, and those golden eyes seemed to bore into him. “Does it work?”

_ “Hello? Mister Kerr, can you hear me?” _

Morris furrowed his eyebrows at Kerr’s lack of a response once again. “Can...can you not hear him, sir?”

Kerr raised an eyebrow. “What?”

_ “It must be, otherwise he’s a world-class poker player.” _

Morris looked back down. “You...you can’t hear him. Back when I touched the symbol on Clarence’s skull, I could hear his voice. In, in my head.” He tapped a finger on his temple for clarity. 

“Really?”

Morris nodded.

Kerr tilted his head to the side, thinking, before giving a small hum and gently setting Clarence back on the table. “That must mean you have the gift then, Morris.”

Morris eyes widened. “The...the gift?”

“Not just anyone can learn magic,” Kerr explained, opening up the Y’dalan book and slowly flipping through each page as he spoke. “Not only does it take a large amount of studying to reach all its potentials, but you need to have the... _ inclination  _ for it as well.”

“Wait...do you know magic? Can you teach me?!” The excitement quickly began to grow in Morris’ voice. 

Kerr lifted a hand. “No, us Y’dalans haven’t had magic for a very long time. I do remember what it’d been like, back before El Rey. I was still quite young, though.”

Morris felt his shoulders sink in disappointment. “Can you read this, Morris?” Kerr spoke up, his eyes still glued on the book resting on the table.

Morris walked up to his side to stare at the page Kerr was looking at, with the extensive and cluttered notes written on the edges of the pages. “Um...no, not really, I’ve been trying to figure out the language for a long time.”

“I can tell,” Kerr let out a brief and quiet laugh. He pointed a finger at one of Morris’ notes. “This word actually means ‘mark’, not ‘make,’ although I can see how you’d get them confused. This book is written in a bit of prose.”

Morris felt the shock run through him so intensely he swore he’d hit the ceiling if he could. “Wait,  _ you can read it?! _ ”

Kerr looked back at him calmly. “Relax, Morris. Yes I can. What are your plans with this book, though? Trying to bring, er, ‘Clarence,’ back to life?”

Morris paused at the question, chewing on his cheek in thought for a moment, before shaking his head. “Um, no, I don’t think so. I don’t know if this book can really help Clarence any more.” He looked back at Kerr with an almost guilty look. “I, I just find the study really fascinating, it’s really the only thing I enjoy doing nowadays anymore.”

Kerr pursed his lips, before looking back down at the open page of the notebook. “Well, it’s clear you  _ are  _ very bright, considering how far you’ve gotten with barely any help. How about this; I help you translate this as best I can while we wait for the storm to blow over. Once it’s over though, I need to leave as soon as I can. Does that sound good?”

Morris’ eyes widened, and a grin split is face. “Of course!”

 

—-

 

The howling of the wind outside the small house become nothing but an audible whisper as Kerr scanned his eyes across the pages of the book, looking at Morris’ notes and how they compared to the actual text. Faintly, he heard the young boy pull up a chair beside him and sit down.

Kerr furrowed his eyebrows in worry as he continued to read the contents of the book; he knew he should have expected something from a book labelled  _ necromancy,  _ but this...the practices in it were far darker than he had expected. Even if it presented all of its ideas in a simple, almost scientific manner, none of it could completely hide the true nature of the art and all its implications. 

And the boy was unnervingly close to its information at times. Kerr looked through the section describing the magical effects of carving into bone--which specified that it needed to still be  _ living,  _ which made Kerr shudder--and couldn’t help but feel disturbed as he saw Morris’ notes using the drawings provided to correctly conclude that the section was related to that skull he had. He distinctly remembered hearing Morris call it “Clarence,” the mundane name almost silly in the way it juxtaposed the fact that it was a seemingly talking  _ skull,  _ and one the boy was quite comfortable with, too. He heard the way the boy leaned over towards it and murmured when he thought Kerr wasn’t looking, and remembered the way he’d continued glancing at the table when the two of them had been talking earlier. When Kerr asked, he remembered Morris mentioning that Clarence had been a great help and motivator when it came to translating the book, even though he knew just as much. 

_ What does this poor boy hope to achieve with this book? Does he want to bring his mother back to life?  _ He glanced over at the teen that was seated next to him, a thick and leather-bound notebook in his hands.

Morris lifted the notebook, “I have these notes as well, although the ones in the book are more quick summaries.”

Kerr nodded, trying to keep his expression even as he thought about the predicament he’d now found himself in. 

_ What was I thinking? I can’t just teach a child this!  _ He flipped another page, seeing reanimated skeletons rising around a glowing Y’dalan. 

Kerr chewed on the inside of his cheek.  _ I’d just gotten so excited, seeing someone with a potential for magic after so long...I got carried away, and now I’m stuck in this.  _

Sighing to himself and pushing the book to the side for a moment, he looked at the notebook Morris had handed to him. He opened it up, quickly skimming through the writing (it was  _ extremely  _ neat and tiny, how old was this boy again?), and as he looked at the pages of questions and speculations, a small idea came to mind. 

_ He occasionally makes the right connections, but he’s still fumbling around in the dark here,  _ he furrowed his eyebrows.  _ You can decide what he learns from this book, Kerr. You can teach him some of the simpler, safer chapters in this book, leave out the darker parts.  _

Kerr sighed to himself.  _ With any luck, he won’t be able to figure out those parts until he’s much older and understands what exactly he’s getting into.  _

He glanced over at Morris’ wide eyes, filled with excitement and practically buzzing in his seat with anticipation. He felt his chest soften a little at the sight, and gave a small smile to the boy. He pointed at one of the lines in the necromancy book. “You’ve translated many of these words quite well, but it’s clear you’re struggling with the grammar of Y’dalan. So how about I teach you that first?”

Morris just quickly nodded his head, and Kerr opened up a blank page on his notebook to begin writing out rules. 

Time began to pass by quickly after that, and Kerr couldn’t help but be impressed by the young man’s intellect. He was incredibly studious, constantly writing down his own notes as Kerr spoke, catching on to the new concepts incredibly quickly, and asking questions upon questions whenever he felt the need to. 

It was fascinating and even a bit exciting, to see someone so eager to learn magic despite the risks. However, in the back of his mind, Kerr also couldn’t help but find it a little unsettling. The way he kept insisting on learning more, how no matter how much Kerr told him he wanted more, even when Kerr provided half-hearted lies and excuses for why he couldn’t read it all out to Morris. 

Perhaps the only reason it was so unnerving was that the skull seemed to share the similar desire for knowledge, if Morris’ reactions and conversations to it were any indication. Kerr stayed on the edge of optimism and believed Morris when he said it was genuinely speaking, but a part of Kerr couldn’t help but wonder if there was a different reason for the voice Morris was hearing. 

They’d been so invested in their work, that the notebook was more than half full with new notes before Kerr realized that he could no longer hear the winds brushing against the walls outside. He looked up at the windows, trying to see any of the outside through the boards posted up on them, and Morris followed his gaze. 

“Oh, it’s a lot quieter now, isn’t it?” Morris murmured, more to himself as Kerr stood up and walked over to the door. 

He hesitantly unlocked it and pulled the door open, allowing a waft of fresh air and a pile of warm sand to spill into the room. Kerr stood back a little from the doorway at the sand that had spread through the entrance, before laughing a little to himself. “I guess it built up from the storm. I apologize for that, I can help clean it up before I go.”

He heard Morris stand up from his chair. “Wait...you’re leaving?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Kerr turned and walked back to the table, Morris standing next to it with a worried expression, his notebook held up against his chest. 

Kerr closed the necromancy book and tapped its front cover. “Don’t worry, it’s not as if I can translate anymore of this book. I’m sure you can learn plenty of magic with what I’ve told you.”

“Wh-!” Morris cut himself off, seemingly trying to figure out something to say, his movements getting more frantic and desperate as he put down the book and began waving his hand. “But, but, you can still help! You still know so more than Y’dalan than I do! We can figure out the parts we can’t understand together!”

“Look, Morris, it’s been pleasant to be here and teach you about this book, but I can’t stay here forever,” Kerr tried to give Morris a stern look, the kind he’d give to his grandchildren when they wouldn’t take no for an answer to buy a new toy or stay with friends a little longer. “I have places to be, there’s a reason I got caught in that Nowhere storm to begin with.”

And with that, Kerr began to move back to the door, when suddenly a hand darted out and grabbed onto the edge of his sleeve. He started, looking back at Morris in shock. The boy’s expression showed pure panic. “Please, Mister Kerr, I’m begging you, you have to stay! At least just for a little longer!”

Kerr began tugging his arm a little, trying to make Morris release his grip. “And I’m  _ telling _ you Morris, I  _ can’t _ !” 

“No!” Morris yelled with so much authority behind it Kerr felt startled. “You can’t go! There’s still so much you can teach me! There’s so much we can learn!” His grip on the robe tightened 

Kerr gave a larger tug, managing to pull free, although the movement caused him to stumble a little. He brushed himself off, before giving a glare to the young boy. Morris seemed to realize his actions a little, and shrunk at the gaze. Kerr simply narrowed his eyes more, before turning back to the door. “I’m leaving, Morris.”

He had only taken another step when he heard a stammering “N-no!” sound behind him, and felt something jerk him from behind and pull him back to the table. 

His feet stumbled to readjust, his left ankle unable to properly reorient itself and twisting as Kerr felt himself begin to fall to the floor on his side.

For a few brief moments he felt the air rushing past his face, see the edge of the table. He barely thought about how it looked a lot closer than it should be. 

And just like that, a blinding hot flash of pain erupted in his skull in a single instant, before he felt nothing. 

And he was gone. 

 

—-

 

Morris stared with wide eyes at the way Kerr crumpled to the ground. The moment his head had touched the corner of the table, an alarmingly loud noise had sounded, and Morris felt himself flinch and cover his ears the moment he heard it. 

“M-Mister Kerr?” Morris spoke, barely a whisper. 

_ “Is he moving? Is he breathing?”  _ Clarence whispered too. 

The familiar voice finally snapped Morris out of his stupor, and he frantically moved to Kerr’s side and pressed an ear to his chest. 

For a brief second, Morris couldn’t tell if he could hear anything, with the roaring of his own heartbeat in his ears. Eventually though, the longer he listened, the longer he realized. 

There wasn’t a single sound coming from the old man. The only heartbeat in that room was Morris’.

He flinched away from the body, staring at it in shock, a million questions filling his mind, the most important one rising to the top like the cream in a new bottle of milk:  _ What do I do now? _

_ “We need to hide the body,”  _ Clarence spoke up, almost as if reading his mind. 

Morris didn’t spare the moment to think if that was even possible before getting back up. “I can bury it. Should I mark the grave or not?”

He heard Clarence give a thoughtful hum.  _ “An unmarked grave near a cemetery would be suspicious, wouldn’t it?” _

Morris furrowed his eyebrows. Clarence was right, there was nothing here to hide an unmarked grave either, such as trees or grass. There had to be a way to hide the body, without people coming by and noticing the difference in graves-

Morris’ eyes widened as an idea came into his head. Stretching his arms, he began to pull the old man by his feet, stretching his body across the floor. He then ran to the workshop, where all his tools were. 

_ “Where are you going?”  _ He heard Clarence’s voice through the walls. 

Morris came back into the room, carrying measuring tape in one hand. “I’m going to see how big of a coffin I need to make.”

_ “Wait, you mean you’re-?” _

“Here’s the story: I stayed hidden away in my house during the Nowhere storm. There were no visitors, I didn’t meet anyone, nothing. When I left my house, I found an old man that had been caught by the storm, and tragically died before he could reach any shelter.  _ I  _ decide to take pity on the old man, and give him a proper burial in the graveyard, even though I don’t know his name. Does that sound good?”

_ “That…”  _ Clarence paused for a moment as Morris stretched out the measuring tape and crouched down next to the body.  _ “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” _

“So, no objections?”

Clarence took a moment to answer.  _ “No...no Mori, if it keeps you safe I don’t object. It’s fine, it’s, it’s good.” _

Clarence didn’t say anything after that, which Morris was thankful for. It prevented him from getting any distractions as he dealt with Kerr’s body. He needed to focus on it, to make sure the job was as good as if he was being paid. After all, his story wouldn’t work if Kerr was unceremoniously dumped in a hole, as much as he wished he could. 


	5. The First Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recklessly thirsting for knowledge causes more problems than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: There's a scene describing self-harm in this chapter. If you have issues with that or are just squeamish, skip to the notes at the end where the chapter is summarized. If you just want to avoid the scene and read the other parts, the quotes ending the scene are "He felt a rush of relief flow through his lungs as he realized that it was over," after that it's just recovery. 
> 
> I've been really nervous about this chapter, it's an important one. I hope it does well.

Morris quickly found himself with even less time on his hands after Kerr was buried and the book’s secrets were all to himself again. Correction, himself and Clarence.

The skull would do his best to keep up with what Morris was learning, but it seemed he was a bit of a slower reader than most. As such, Morris split the time he spent between studying hunched over his desk and carefully reading it out loud to Clarence, which in turn helped Morris himself remember.

It was extremely slow to read at first, but at least there was _progress._ And as he kept practicing translating, reading the Y’dalan slowly became more and more natural.

As he approached the age of fifteen, Morris found himself grumbling and pushing his long brown hair behind his ear for the twelfth time, only for it to fall back down into his field of view. It kept getting in his face and on the pages, and on particularly bad days it’d brush up against some of the spots of wet ink of Morris’ writing. One day he got so frustrated that he got a tie and pushed his thick hair back into a simple, if somewhat messy ponytail for when he was working. It was all instantly better, and it was so much easier to work. Eventually, Morris found himself wearing the ponytail constantly.

The town nearby seemed to notice Morris’ change in attitude whenever he went there to get food and water. They’d say he seemed more upbeat, if a little tired, and Morris would simply brush off their light curiosity of his personal life with a different explanation to each person, mostly out of amusement.

“Morris, you really should get some more rest. Those circles under your eyes only seem to get darker every time I see you.”

Morris glanced up at Mrs. Shelley, looking down at him worriedly. She was one of the mothers in this town that’d been willing to take Morris in back when his father first died, although she’d backed off like the others eventually. Still, she’d try and strike up friendly conversation with him whenever he came to town, and occasionally would baby him despite the fact that he was already sixteen.

Morris shrugged. “I’m just busy, ma’am.”

Mrs. Shelley’s eyes grew sadder. “Do mercenaries really visit you that frequently?”

Morris paused, thinking. It’d be a bit too hard to believe that that was really the case, especially since there’d seemed to be quite a lull in mercenary activity for the past few years. Morris shook his head. “I like to spend my free time reading.”

“Well, aren’t you a smart boy!” Her voice brightened and she smiled a little, the movement accentuating the wrinkles around her eyes. “But still, you shouldn’t give up sleep for your books.”

Morris nodded absentmindedly. “I will, ma’am.”

Of course he wasn’t going to do that. The reading Morris had done so far had been absolutely _fascinating_ , and even the section about that weird flower was interesting. He’d been studying the theories of necromancy in the first few chapters, but now he was finally making it to the practical usage of the magic.

“Necromancy...roots...symbol-markings?” Morris slowly wrote out the phrases and words he understood in the notebook, before writing the complete sentence, speaking all of it out loud for Clarence. “Necromancy is a complicated and difficult art, and as such commonly known crutches for magic such as symbols, movement, and verbal cues are necessary for even skilled magicians. Symbols play the largest role, and where, what, and how the symbol is placed will have an effect on the magic.”

Morris looked at the small collection of symbols provided in a table below, brushing his fingers over the first. “This one is the simplest—vassal creation—used to perform reanimation through touch,” he felt excitement buzz and prickle through his skin. “You apply it to the palm through any means, and just like that you’ll bring back almost anything dead you touch with that palm!

“However, there are many limits to this breed of magic,” Morris frowned at the book. “The dead material can’t be brought back if it’s too broken down, and the reanimations will simply be…”

Morris trailed off as he squinted at the last word in the paragraph.

_“What is it, Mori?”_

“I’m trying to read this thing, here,” he flipped through the notes Kerr had given him. “Doesn’t seem that Mr. Kerr had known how to translate it, because I can’t find a definition anywhere.”

_“What does it sound like?”_

“Umm...Tray-kelly? Trenkle? Treenklay?”

_“Might be a uniquely Y’dalan word.”_

“Seems so,” Morris quickly wrote down the word in his notebook. “But still, this is great! I just need to get some ink, draw this on my hand, and I’ll be able to reanimate something!”

Morris quickly stood up in his chair in excitement, gripping the pen tightly in his right hand, before briefly thinking for a moment and putting it in his left. Squinting at the symbol drawn in the book, he shakily began copying down the picture on his right palm.

_“What are you doing, Mori?”_

“The book said that the effects of someone’s magic is stronger when it’s channeled through a dominant part of the body, like the hand,” Morris explained, sitting back down holding his palm upward to let the ink dry. The image looked a little off and it was pretty shaky in terms of line work, but he hoped that it’d be enough to get some results.

He stared at it for another moment, before glancing back at Clarence. “Do you think I should test it on you first?”

He heard Clarence hum. _“I don’t think so. Considering we’ve figured out I have a necromancy symbol on my bone, putting the two of them together could cause...unexpected results.”_

“Ah, you have a point there.” His eyebrows furrowed. “I’m going to have to dig up one of the bodies though, aren’t I?”

_“You’ll need to get a body that was put in a cheap coffin, to make it easier to dig up.”_

“And we need to be careful choosing them, we don’t want someone finding out and getting mad because we defaced their loved one’s grave,” Morris rubbed his chin a little, glancing out the window of the room, and at the graveyard next to his home.

His eyes quickly focused in on a small cross made from rotting wood, above an unmarked grave. It didn’t need to be marked. After all, how could Morris forget who was buried inside?

Morris clenched his right hand into a fist, the ink already dried. His gaze stayed fixated on his father’s grave.

_“Morris?”_

Morris paid no attention to him, abruptly standing up again and quickly making his way to the door. He made sure to grab the shovel on the way out.

The end of the day brought a bright orange glow to the horizon, showing the shadow of the dead tree in the distance. The lighting reminded Morris of the day he’d first met Clarence. He lifted a hand to keep the wind out of his eyes, the breeze gently disturbing the hair at the end of his ponytail.

He looked ahead at the grave in front of the sunset, the old wooden cross casting a long dark shadow towards Morris, almost like it was reaching towards him to pull him closer.

The nail holding the two boards on the grave together had become rusted and slipped out as the years passed, so now the center board was at an awkward angle as it pointed towards the ground. The board fell off entirely when Morris grabbed the base of the cross and pulled it out of the ground in one swift motion.

Morris didn’t let himself take a break as he steadily and quickly began removing the lump of dirt, bit by bit and setting it aside. The twilight sky slowly blended from lovely oranges and violets into the deep blues of the night, but Morris paid no heed to the way the light changed. The moonlight was showing through the clouds, and it was enough for him to see what was immediately in front of him. The hole, however, began to look more like a black void as he continued digging through it as less and less moonlight was reaching inside.

Morris had been digging for an hour and had begun wondering if the body even was there when he felt his shovel hit something that was certainly not dirt nor sand. He gained a new rush of energy, moving the dirt faster once again, the tip of his shovel scraping across the top of the old wood of the coffin as he tried to grab the dirt resting on top of it. Eventually, the wooden coffin was in full view, the moonlight just barely showing the holes that had broken down through it as the years had passed by. The wood felt almost soft in his hands as he carefully and slowly lifted the lid off of the coffin, leaning it to the side.

The skeleton didn’t seem to reach the same heights his father had in life. If he looked closely at the pale bones, he could see some dried tissue still stretched across it like a jacket that was too small for a body, or a leech holding on tight to an arm.

The sight didn’t even make Morris blink. But he trembled, looking down at the mark on his palm, feeling a mix of excitement and fear shake through him, coupled with an aftertaste of adrenaline.

He carefully stepped into the coffin, bending down and reaching his palm towards the skeleton’s forehead.

The soft flesh of his hand slowly made contact with the hard bone, and Morris held his breath.

A few beats passed.

Morris didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes, and as he slowly opened them he squinted down at his father’s body to see...nothing. No movement, no magic, no _life,_ nothing.

Morris furrowed his eyebrows, lifted his palm, and placed it on the skeleton’s forehead again, although a little more forcefully. Still no reaction. He lifted his hand and smacked the skull repeatedly, like it was a button that’d eventually work given enough brute force.

Morris growled in frustration, feeling all sense of excitement that was in him suddenly boil into anger, and he stepped out of the coffin and made his way back to the house.

Morris had buried his father a little far from his house, so as he began making his way back he slowly re-entered Clarence’s range of telepathy, the skull’s voice quickly gaining volume as Morris got closer and closer. He was rambling to himself again.

He slammed the door of the house open, and he heard Clarence give a noise of surprise.

_“M-Mori?! What happened? Did you revive your-the body?”_

“No, it didn’t,” Morris grumbled, plopping back into the seat and relighting the lantern on his desk.

He reopened the book, tracing a finger underneath the words as he desperately began to reread them. _Did I do something wrong here? What’s missing?_

It was then that he realized there was a sentence that he hadn’t noticed before, one that came after showing the collection of different symbols.

“How you create the symbol is important: the longer lasting it is, the stronger it becomes.”

His fingers tightly gripped on the edges of the page in frustration. _“M-Mori?”_ Clarence’s voice cautiously creeped into the back of his mind.

“Of course!” Morris spoke more to himself than Clarence. “How could I possibly have expected the magic to work with just some measly pen ink and my own ability? The magic must not have been strong enough!”

_“Well, what do you expect to use instead of ink? What other writing materials do you have?”_

Morris furrowed his eyebrows, thinking to himself. And suddenly, it came to him. He quickly left the room again, making his way to what he could best call the kitchen and searching through the drawers. He heard Clarence’s voice through the walls as he did so.

_“M-Morris? What are you doing? Why’d you go there? What, what are you going to do?”_

He tried to ignore the gasp he heard come from the skull as he re-entered the room with a knife in his hand. He stared down at the pathetic ink drawing on the other hand, determination running coldly through his bones.

_“Morris, h-hold on, don’t you think we should try something else before you do this?”_

“Clarence, this could be your chance to finally get a body of your own,” Morris’ voice remained even as he continued staring at his palm, distantly thinking about how he was going to solidly hold the knife with his left hand. “This could be a chance to talk to dad again. I’ve been working on this for practically half my life. You think I can just stop now?”

 _“I…”_ Clarence hesitated as Morris sat down on the bench, his palm held upwards towards the lamp light. He carefully began pressing the tip of the blade into his skin, and he felt a sharp and thin pain jolt through his palm as he did so. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the alarms ringing through his mind as he slowly began to trace the ink drawing. He kept his mind focused on the image of the symbol floating in the darkness, trying to look at his hand as little as possible. As he let himself slowly distance himself, the feelings of numbness and electricity in his palm and the warm liquid he knew was blood running down it, they barely became noticeable as he found his mind focusing in more on Clarence’s words echoing through his mind.

 _“Please, no, don’t do that! Oh god, be careful, don’t cut your arm too! Do, do you have bandages for this? Do you have_ anything _for this? How much was this planned?! Oh god, no no please Morris stop...”_

Morris’ hand was shaking from the pain that reverberated through it like an earthquake, and he tried his best to press his arm into the desk to keep it from moving so much. He felt a brief and choked sob escape through his clenched teeth as he twisted the knife and finished the carving, his vision getting a little spotty with the panic alarms that his arm was sending his mind seemingly clogging most of its functions.

He felt a rush of relief flow through his lungs as he realized that it was over, quickly letting the knife go in his grip and clatter onto the desk. His breathing was forced, and his eyes were squinted so much he could barely see Clarence’s skull lit up in the lantern’s light.

_“Morris, Mori, I need you to listen to me. We have bandages, clean bandages, they’re in the drawer in the other room. Do you think you can make it there?”_

Morris took a deep breath, nodding a little and standing up. His walking was a little uneven, but he slowly stumbled his way to the other room. He could barely focus on the floor a few feet ahead of him, and instead resigned to navigating through memory. He left the door wide open behind him.

_“I can see a little what you’re doing. Be careful not to touch anything with your right hand! The drawer, it should be in front of you, the second one down.”_

Morris quietly and obediently followed Clarence’s instructions, and soon enough he saw a pale roll of bandages in the light from the other room and grabbed it. He quickly made his way back to his desk, holding his hand up in the light and gingerly wiping away some of the blood on his hand. He couldn’t afford to use his water to clean it off, it’d been a harsg season that year and Don Paragon was being far more rigid with his distribution.

Eventually, Morris was able to see enough of his skin between the red lines to be satisfied, and began to carefully wrap the bandages around his palm. Clarence stayed mostly quiet throughout most of it once it became clear that Morris didn’t need instructions anymore. That is, until the end.

_“...That’s enough bandages, Mori.”_

Morris blinked, and looked down at his hand with new clarity, realizing that he’d been putting far too many on his hand. The lump of gauze encircling his palm now looked like a pale tumor, the blood having already been absorbed many layers below and was no longer visible. He heard Clarence sigh, and Morris’ eyes and back suddenly grew heavy, like a pair of hands were slowly but strongly pulling his head down towards the ground.

_“Morris, you should drink some water before you sleep, and please try and do it in your own bed—“_

Morris had buried his head in his arm in his desk and passed out before Clarence could even finish his sentence.

 

—-

 

Morris woke up several hours later with a sharp aching in his back and his arm stuck to his face. His strange dream of being swallowed whole by a sinister red eye faded from his memory as he carefully peeled his arm away from his face, grimacing as he sat up straight and felt his back stretch just from the slight movement.

His throat felt unbelievable dry, and before he did anything he went over to the kitchen to grab some water. He sat down on the ground and drank from the cup as slowly as he could muster, relishing the feeling of his parched throat getting at least a brief sense of relief.

He finished drinking out of the cup and looked down to see a trail of small blood droplets leading back to his desk, the dots having already dried to a dark brown overnight. He sighed to himself, knowing he’d have to clean it up soon.

He looked down at his overly bandaged hand, moving his fingers experimentally, before slowly unraveling the bandages and seeing his hand, which was slightly stuck to the bottom bandages and stained a dark brown from the dried blood all over it.

The symbol that Morris had drawn into his hand was an interesting one, now that hed given himself more time to loom and process it: it was a simplified image of the Nigromantia flower on the cover of the book, with what seemed to be a subtle cross sneaked into the center of the simple design. At the base of each finger on his palm was a dark dot, meant to represent the pollen that the Nigromantia was so famous for. They had also been the hardest parts to create with a blade.

A crusty line of dried blood had already developed along the lines Morris had drawn over with his knife, and he dipped the cleaner parts of the gauze into the drops of water at the bottom of his cup and carefully wiped away some more the dried blood in between all the cuts before reapplying the bandage. He’d see if he could go to town to get something to help it heal without revealing what he’d done.

_“...Mori? How’s your hand?”_

Morris stood back up and walked back to the other room. “I’m much better now, thank you for helping me Clarence,” he looked out the window to notice that it was a bit lighter than before. “What time is it now?”

_“The sun is bound to be rising soon. I’ve counted, you seem to have been asleep for around seven hours.”_

“You have a very good internal clock.”

_“It’s one of the benefits of never having to sleep.”_

Morris smiled a little at the response, but the two were soon plunged into silence as it was clear Clarence had something to say, but was mustering up the courage to do so.

_“Do you think the magic will work now?”_

“There’s no reason it shouldn’t,” Morris reasoned, trying to comfort himself more than Clarence. He looked out the window to see that his father’s grave was still desecrated, the coffin wide open and waiting like a person with their arms outstretched for an embrace.

_“...Go test it, then. I can watch from the window.”_

Morris nodded, and quickly ran out of the house and to his father’s grave. He didn’t want someone to see what he’d done to the grave in the morning light, he’d need to act quickly. Soon enough, he skid to a halt to the side of the grave, where his father’s skull seemed to almost be tilted towards him with its jaw half open as if to say _where have you been?_

Taking a deep breath, Morris leaned down next to the coffin and reached out his hand to grab his father’s skull again.

He had the briefest of moments to wonder if his bandage would block the magic before they touched down and the skeleton immediately jerked up in response.

Morris gave a small gasp and pulled his hand back, staring at the skeleton that was sitting up in front of him. It turned its head to look at him, and Morris saw two bright lights sitting in the sockets of the skull, and they seemed to have focused in on him. Other than that though, the skeleton barely moved and Morris found himself frozen on what to do.

He swallowed, despite his throat still being dry, and mustered up the courage to speak up. “...F-father? Is that you?”

The skeleton merely tilted its head, seemingly unsure of how to answer. Morris couldn’t be sure, it was hard to read the emotions of bone.

“Can you not answer me? Please, if you can, say something!”

The jaw of the skeleton slowly opened up, and Morris heard a voice in his mind in a way he’d grown so familiar with after all these years. However, it seemed... _different_ from Clarence’s “voice,” somehow.

_“I can speak.”_

It sounded nothing like his father. Not the voice, the mannerisms, nothing. It was all far too stiff.

“What are you?” He murmured.

_“Subservient.”_

Morris’ eyes widened. “What? What do you mean?”

 _“I am…”_ The skeleton paused, its gaze still focused in on Morris. _“Traenkhlee. Your vassal.”_

The skeleton seemed to speak the word so naturally, a word that Morris struggled with pronouncing so much that he almost didn’t make the connection between it and the strange word he’d found in the book. His body chilled as he felt cold reality drape over him and the realization seeped into his skin. “...You’re not father. You’re not anything.”

The skeleton didn’t respond. Morris slowly stood up, his voice evening out as he spoke. “Get out of that coffin.”

The skeleton immediately complied, only further confirming Morris’ conclusion. It somehow managed to stand on its own as a skeleton, despite the fact that it was lacking most of its flesh and the bones didn’t even seem to be _touching_ each other. He pointed at the shovel that’d been stuck in the pile of dirt next to the grave. “Close the coffin and bury it again. Then come to my home, but don’t enter.”

The skeleton didn’t even nod, it simply stepped to the side and began working. Morris felt something inside of him twist at the sight, and quietly began walking back to his house. He only needed to move a few feet to hear Clarence’s concerned voice.

_“It worked? Why is your father burying the grave again? Mori, what happened?”_

Both Morris and Clarence knew that Morris wouldn’t be able to respond at this distance, meaning that Clarence’s curiosity was truly killing him. Morris quickly made his way back and entered back through the front door. “I must’ve read the book wrong.”

_“What?”_

“It’s not father. It’s just a dead body willing to obey my every command,” Morris explained, his voice hard as he sat back down and looked at his book and notes. He looked at where he had written down the strange Y’dalan word form before, and next to it he put an equal sign and wrote down words like “slave” and “vassal,” as well as a small note on how he’d heard the skeleton pronounce the word itself (“train-klee”). He flipped through the book’s table of contents, trying to see if he could find the word among it. And soon enough, he saw the word in a subsection of one of the last chapters, “Types of Reanimations.”

He quickly turned to the right page labeled “ _Traenkhlee_ ” and quickly began translating as best as he could.

“ _Traenkhlees_ are built to be simple servants, filling the body of the dead with an empty spirit meant to follow the Necromancer’s orders…” Morris trailed off a little as he read the introduction, but he shook his head and continued reading aloud. “However, the obedience is dependent on both the power of the magic-user and the power of the symbol.

“The most commonly used symbol for _Traenkhlee_ creation is the _Nigrim,_ pictured below,” Morris quickly glanced down and sure enough it was the symbol he’d been using this whole time. “It’s power over _Traenkhlee_ is easily the strongest out of any symbol, although this symbol is unique in that its power is gained over time. The symbol draws in strength as time passes, and as such the longer the symbol remains intact the greater control it has over _Traenkhlees_. This is why it’s often recommended to use a strong and long-lasting ink to paint the symbol.”

Morris stopped speaking, staring at that last part. He quickly flipped back to the section he’d read before, where it said that “How you create the symbol is important: the longer lasting it is, the stronger it becomes.”

He gritted in teeth in frustration as he read it, and his left hand clenched into a fist. _I’d misinterpreted the way the book had said it,_ he thought. _I thought that creating a more permanent symbol would make it stronger immediately!_

He looked down at his bandaged hand. _What made it fail the first time, though?_ He thought of the shaky ink drawing from the beginning, compared to the stable and cleanly cut form it took afterwards. _Did it just not work because I hadn’t drawn it well? Was that really all there was to it?_

He stared at his hand for a few seconds, his mind flickering in and out like a candle as he quietly began to realize what had really happened.

_“...Mori?”_

“I’ve made a mistake,” he responded to Clarence’s worried tone. “I read through the book too quickly and didn't’ double check my translation.”

He looked out the window, at the shadow of the skeleton filling up its own grave slowly being lit up by the rising sun.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Clarence. I promise I’ll be more careful with this magic. These are powerful arts we’re dealing with here, I can’t rush my way through it.”

Clarence didn’t respond for a bit, and even when he spoke the voice was so quiet that Morris almost missed it.

_“I’d very much like that.”_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Morris learns that necromancy is an odd magic dependent on symbols, and decides to write a reanimation symbol on his palm to see if it'll work. He digs up his father's grave, and tries to reanimate the skeleton inside, but for some reason nothing works. He goes back inside, and thinks that it went wrong because he used the wrong writing tool, and decides to use a knife instead. He bandages himself up and passes out. When he wakes up he tries to revive his father again and this time it works, but as it turns out this form of necromancy creates a puppet out of the skeleton, rather than it being the same person back when it was alive. Morris also realizes that he misread/mistranslated the instructions on the book and realized that the reanimation had failed the first time because he hadn't drawn the symbol well, not because he used ink. 
> 
>    
> Hey first off can I get more Undertaker with his hair tied in this fandom thank you.   
> Second off, this chapter was finished about a day before episode 10 was released to non-first members, so guess who had to go back and edit all the writing about magic to make it at least slightly coexist with canon! *points in all directions except myself* probably someone! Considering we don't know that much about necromancy, I gave myself a lot of elbow room and was able to have my magic system cooperate with canon's in like a day. 
> 
> Now just wait, season 2 will have an episode detailing necromancy and then I'll be fucked.


	6. 18th Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris tries to do something new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy the double update!!]
> 
> Also huge thanks to return-to-stars for this fantastic art!: https://return-to-stars.tumblr.com/post/179022154247/unabashedlytenacioustyrant-has-a-fantastic-fic-of
> 
> You like made my month and motivated me to finish both of these chapters :D

_“I can’t believe you’re going along with my ‘handcuffs’ idea.”_

“In what way is this unusual for me, Clarence? We have the same sense of humor. Plus, think of the possibilities! Cuffs that lock themselves without a key, that only I can control.” He didn’t look up from the notebook he was writing in, drawing sketches of the hands and the symbols he’d write to achieve the effect.

_“Will that work, though? Reanimating just the few parts?”_

Morris nodded, a smile beginning to split his face. “I forgot to tell you, but I’ve been stealing a few parts from the corpse given to me this week, and just what little I’ve experimented with has been _very_ telling. Not only can the parts be reanimated separate from the main body, but they even adapt to their limited form. The hand I stole was able to to crawl around with its fingers.”

_“Do they communicate like the Traenkhlee and I?”_

Morris frowned. “Actually, they didn’t, now that you mention it. Not exactly, at least. I can tell when they acknowledge my commands, but they don’t make any...comprehensible words, if that makes any sense. Perhaps the head is necessary for use of language?”

_“Maybe. It’s an interesting theory.”_

Morris finished drawing the last finger bone in his notebook, and leaned back with a sigh. “It’s strange, I actually look forward to more clients now, just to see if I can steal some more parts to test.”

He heard Clarence laugh a little. _“I suppose that’s one way to learn to love your job.”_

Morris chuckled a little, before glancing at the gaping hole. “I’m going to go get the hands now. And I actually need your help after that.”

“ _Really? For what?”_

“I’m curious as to whether I can get the hands to carry you in some way,” Morris smiled. “Plus, it’d be useful if you thought up a few more puns that I can turn into a new project. I’m desperate for ideas.”

\---

 

_“Mori?”_

Morris kept his eyes focused on the two usual books in front of him. He was sitting in the kitchen, under the light of the large lamp above the table and diligently wrote down note after note with his left hand.

Once the wound on Morris’ right hand had finally healed and no longer hurt to simply curl his palm, he’d begun testing on the effects and limits of the vassal creation spell and the _Nigrim_ symbol, of course. What was most interesting was how the magic worked involuntarily: it didn’t matter if he didn’t want a vassal, if that symbol made contact with something dead, it’d be revived.

And from several attempts he’d learned very quickly that the Nigrim spell unfortunately couldn’t be obstructed by fabric, even several layers of it, as long as there was physical contact. He’d been wearing gloves for the past several months in a vain attempt to stop the magic from activating on its own, but when it became clear that didn’t work he simply wore gloves to cover it up from prying eyes. He hadn’t truly realized how dangerous the symbol was though, until he’d accidentally revived the corpse in a body bag someone had brought him. Luckily the client had been long gone by then, but it had made Morris realize just how much more cautiously he’d have to work, and how he acted around corpses in general.

_“Mori.”_

This problem quickly lead Morris to wonder exactly what dead material he’d need to be careful of reviving. More specifically, that rule listed in the book: “if the dead material is too broken down, then the reanimation won’t work.”

Morris’ first question had been, how broken down is too much? The answer he’d eventually gotten to was basically broken down into thousands of pieces until it wasn’t recognizable.

He’d tested the _Nigrim_ symbol by grinding up a finger bone into dust and testing the symbol on meat scraps, and neither responded to him.

He wondered if a fur coat would be revived by the _Nigrim_ symbol, but considering they lived in a desert no one he knew even had a fur coat: That was an item more commonly seen in the possession of the rich...

_“Moooriiii…”_

The discovery that interested Morris the most was realizing that he was able to make vassals out of plants, even if the practical use didn’t go very far beyond that. There was a pot on his windowsill where a dried and dead flower sat, its petals wide open as Morris had instructed. It had taken a couple hours for the plant to do so, which was the standard amount of movement for the simple flower. The experiment essentially confirmed that any vassals wouldn’t be able to do anything outside of the limits of when they were alive. Even so, it was exciting to realize that his necromancy worked on more than just animals. What was even more interesting about the flower was that the previous day the stem of the flower had broken, and yet it had remained in place, fixed in the air as if there was still something supporting it. It was exactly the way the skeletons held themselves together with no muscle.

_“Mori!”_

“What?” Morris called to the open door of his room, feeling a little annoyed to be snapped out of his thoughts. “I’m busy. I’ve been making good progress translating this all.”

_“How far have you gotten through the book?”_

Morris lifted the book and stared at the pages all together. “I’m almost about two thirds through.”

_“Maybe you should take a break?”_

Morris raised an eyebrow, but after a moment’s thought he complied as he set the book down and walked back into his room. “What’s going on? I haven’t been working for that long, so it’s clear something’s going on.”

_“Lord, you really forgot, didn’t you?”_

“Forget what?” Morris frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “Come now, you know I don’t like you dragging these things out.”

 _“It’s your birthday, you ditz!”_ Clarence exclaimed excitedly.

Morris opened his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it, glancing off as he tried to remember the current date. _No,_ _it couldn’t be…_

Clarence must’ve seen Morris’ eyes widen at the realization, as Morris heard a giggle echo in his ears. _“You’re eighteen years old now! That’s a big milestone. You should celebrate!”_

Morris gave a little snort, regaining his composure and wiping away his shocked expression. “And how should I do that? Revive some more corpses in the graveyard and hold a dance? I’d rather spend my time working on the book some more. Wouldn’t that be a good enough birthday gift for myself?”

He heard a groan come from Clarence. _“You need to spend some time_ away _from that book sometimes, Mori. Why don’t you go meet some more people?_ Real _people. Why not spend some time in the town, take in the sights? You’re hardly ever there, and even when you are, it’s for barely any time.”_

Morris leaned on his hand, thinking. “I don’t know, Clarence. I can hardly see how I’d enjoy doing all that. Isn’t the point of a birthday to enjoy oneself?”

Clarence hummed. _“You may have a point there. But tell me, when have you ever done ‘all that?’”_

Morris frowned, and glanced away. “Maybe before father died? Hm, maybe not, there weren’t any kids my age back then…”

Morris trailed off, realizing what Clarence was getting at, and he heard the skull give a self satisfied chuckle.

_“Well, how do you know you like something if you’ve never tried it?”_

Morris sighed, not sure what kind of response he could give, and Clarence continued.

 _“You spend too much time in here. Would it_ kill _you to interact with someone alive for once?”_

“Maybe it’d kill _them_ ,” Morris laughed dryly. Clarence remained silent, showing how serious he was.

_“Go outside, hang out in town. You’re eighteen, why not try something new?”_

Morris gave an exasperated sigh, hanging his head back. “Fine. But only this one night. If I don’t like it, you can’t make me go again.”

 _“Fine,”_ Clarence sniffed. _“But then you have to make sure you try as many new things as possible tonight.”_

“What? But-“

_“Promise.”_

Morris glared at Clarence, before stepping out of his chair and starting to get ready. “Alright, I promise.”

 

—-

 

“Oh, Morris!”

Mrs. Shelley’s eyes widened as Morris walked through the door, and he swore he heard something break from behind the counter as the old woman stumbled.

“What are you doing here? You’ve already gotten your supplies for this month, haven’t you? What went wrong? Did you forget something? What-“

“Mrs. Shelley, relax, nothing’s wrong,” Morris gave a warm smile and waved a hand. “I just thought...I’m turning eighteen today, and thought maybe it’d do me some good to spend some time outside my house.”

Mrs. Shelley’s eyes somehow widened even more, a wide grin slowly splitting her face.

“Morris, that’s great! Oh god, the time has flown by so quickly. Are you really eighteen now?” She grasped Morris by the shoulders, her questions going a mile a minute.

Morris gave a smile and opened his mouth to respond, but Mrs. Shelley kept on going.

“Oh my, we need to do something _special!_ I can organize a little party for you, invite the rest of town. Oh, this is so sudden, I need to find a gift-“

“Mrs. Shelley, please, _calm down!_ ” Morris laughed a little in an attempt to alleviate the aggressive tone his voice had. “I don’t need all of that. I just want to go around today, nothing too organized. Please, don’t prepare anything for me.”

Mrs. Shelley frowned. “But...Morris! You really want nothing?”

Morris sighed, a tired little smile on his face. “...How about this: I go around town for a few hours, and that’ll give you time to prepare a gift for me. Once the night is over, I’ll come back here and you can give me a gift, if that’s what you really want. Does that sound good?”

Mrs. Shelley glanced away, opening her mouth and shutting it again. It was clear she wanted to object, but Morris knew it was a good bargain for her.

“St-still, are you really going to go out into town like that? Those bags are still under your eyes. And look at your hair!” she patted a hand through his ponytail, and he gently pushed it away. “You need to wash it a little, that hair tie isn’t hiding how dirty it is. Maybe a shave too?”

Morris laughed a little. “Really, Mrs. Shelley, it’s fine. _I’m_ fine. I was just thinking of taking a walk, I’m not going to see a lady or something.”

Mrs. Shelley sighed. “Alright, fine. Make sure to enjoy your night, okay? Eighteen’s a big number, you know!”

Morris nodded, before turning around and heading back to the door. “I’ll make sure to do that, ma’am.”

The cool, evening air hit Morris as he exit the building, and he noticed a few strays hair dangling in front of his nose as they blew in the wind. He tossed them aside with a huff of his breath, and looked around the mostly empty streets. _Well, Morris, it’s your birthday, you’re in a town of people you barely talk to. How are you going to spend your night?_

His eyes skimmed over his surroundings, stopping at each building, until something suddenly caught his attention.

It was a spread of posters, up against the sheriff’s building. Curious, he walked over to get a closer look.

They were wanted posters, with various miscellaneous criminals and their respective bounties that drove hunters into Morris’ coffins and kept his business afloat. In the center of them all was the main target, the one that held the largest bounty for as long as Morris could remember.

The Nomad of Nowhere himself. The last magic user.

Morris felt his hands tighten into fists. His father was right, after all these years. Magic was still forbidden and sought after by El Rey, and the reality of what Morris had been studying slowly seeped into his skin like a biting wind. If he was ever caught, he’d end up on that wall too, right next to the Nomad.

 _I wonder if I’ll get an equally ridiculous bounty, too._ He smiled grimly to himself, before sighing to himself. _Forget it, Mori. It’s your_ birthday _. You didn’t come to town to stress about your own criminal activity, did you?_

He furrowed his eyebrows, thinking to himself. _What am I going to do now?_

 

\---

 

“So, what do you want?”

Morris sat down at the bar, and stared at the vast amounts of bottles standing behind the bartender. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking back to the nights his father would come home with a flushed face and particular smell. “...Whiskey?”

The bartender smiled. “Your first time drinking?”

Morris only shrugged, and the bartender left to prepare the drink, apparently satisfied with the answer. Morris stared at his gloved hands on the counter in front of him, his gaze drifting into empty space. He remembered how he’d ask his father for a sip of his drink, and how he’d always respond with “You can have some when you’re older, when you’re ready.”

After meeting Clarence, he never really thought about counting the passing years. After his father died, he never considered what he’d thought was “ready.”

Well, what did it matter anyway. His father was gone, and Morris had moved on. He could take care of himself, he concluded, and _he’d_ decide when he was “ready.”

A loud tap on the counter startled Morris out of his thoughts as something was placed in front of him. He stared at the small glass with the bright orange liquid inside, and looked back up to see the bartender watching him expectantly, aside from a few glances to the side.

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, he quickly gripped the glass, and without giving himself time to think, downed the entire thing.

As soon as he swallowed the sour liquid, he involuntarily stuck out his tongue in disgust, and he heard the bartender chuckle to himself. He was resting his chin on his folded hands with a stare that could only be described as patronizing. Morris gave him a small glare, and the bartender glanced to the side.

“You’re that kid that lives by the graveyard, right? Son of Mr. Hughes? Barely see you around here.”

Morris grimaced. “That’s me. I just decided to try visiting today.”

“Any particular reason you’ve come out of your hole today?”

“It’s just my birthday, is all…” Morris mumbled, looking away.

The bartender’s eyes widened. “Is that so? How old?”

Morris hesitated for a moment, before deciding there was no point at hiding it now. “Eighteen.”

The bartender’s eyebrows raised in what Morris could only guess was surprise, glanced to the side, before shrugging. “Alright. If you want another drink just tell me.”

Morris frowned. “Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you.”

The bartender stopped moving, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You keep glancing to the side,” Morris pointed. “What is it you’re looking at?”

The bartender tilted his head, and looked to the side again as a grin slowly widened across his face. “There’s a girl in the corner over there. Don’t look now, or at least not obviously, but she keeps staring at you. She’s been doing so since you walked in.”

Morris glanced where the bartender was looking, making sure that his head wasn’t turning. Sure enough, there she was. She was a young woman, probably only a year off of Morris’ age, with brown hair pulled up in a bun and a simple blue dress with accents of white in it, staring at him intensely with her chin resting on her folded hands.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s interested in you,” the bartender smiled.

Morris thought of the way she was staring at him, and immediately thought of the way he himself would stare at a new necromancy symbol, with the strange hunger glinting in her eyes. “Interested how?”

“Interested in you as a _date,_ you idiot!” The bartender hissed, lightly punching his shoulder.

Morris raised an eyebrow at him. _How are you so sure about it?_

The bartender glanced over. “She’s pretty cute. Maybe you go talk to her?”

“Why would I do that?” Morris frowned.

The bartender shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe it’d be fun? I suppose it’s your decision, in the end.”

And with that, he walked away to leave Morris alone to his own thoughts. He glanced over again to see the young woman at the table, playing with the rim of her glass of water.

He sighed, turning back and staring down at the empty glass in his hands, which was slippery and cold to the touch with what condensation remained.

 _Try as many new things as possible,_ Clarence’s words came back to him, and after a brief moment where he closed his eyes and gathered his courage, Morris forced himself out of the seat and walked over to the young woman. She eventually realized what he was doing, and he saw her eyes widen briefly as she watched him approach. “Can I help you?” She asked once he was close enough.

“Would it be alright if I sat here?”

He saw a smile flash across her features before her face was neutral again and she nodded. Morris couldn’t help but admire how stony her expression was, and how quickly she’d hidden her emotions. It also unnerved him, knowing that she could hide true intentions. What if the smile was fake, too?

The woman shifted a little to the side to give room for Morris to sit, and he accepted the spot next to her. She gave him a sidelong glance. “I never see you around here. Are you a traveler?”

“Um,” Morris hesitated to respond, not sure if it’d be a good idea to explain the truth. What if she wanted to break into his house? “I’m not, but I live quite far off.”

“Oh?” The woman raised her eyebrows in feigned interest Morris knew was common in small talk, and she extended a hand. “My name’s Dollie, Dollie Ballard. You can call me Doll. You?”

Morris was a bit put off by the confident way she presented herself: it wasn’t what he expected considering she’d seemed resigned to watching him from across the bar, but nonetheless, he accepted her hand. “...Mori.”

Dollie gave him an incredulous look. “Is that a nickname?”

“It is.”

Morris’ curt response and somewhat strong tone seemed to make it clear to her that he wasn't giving his real name, and Dollie chuckled a little at it. “Well alright, Mysterious ‘Mori,’ what are you doing in the bar tonight if you’ve never visited this town?”

“Oh, well um…” Morris glanced over to see the whiskey glass that he left at the counter being picked up by the bartender, who gave him a wink from across the floor. “I turned eighteen today, thought it was about time I should try out some alcohol, you know…”

“Eighteen, huh? Did you like it?”

“Not really…”

Dollie gave a short bark of laughter at Morris’ quiet response, and he jolted a little at the sound. “I can understand the feeling! First time I tried some beer, wanted to spit it out. So I did!”

“You’ve drunk before? How old are you?”

Dollie tilted her head. “I turned nineteen a little over a month ago, but my dad let me try his drink back when I was sixteen.”

“Your father? Where is he?”

“Oh, he’s uh...not around anymore.”

Morris frowned. He’d heard enough grieving parents and their children to immediately hear the implications in the tone. He wondered if he’d buried her father. She didn’t look familiar as a client, although he didn’t really make an effort to remember them by name, but not even her face rung a bell. “What was his name?”

Dollie crossed her arms, glancing away. “I uh, I don't mean to be rude, but I don’t really like to talk about him.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, then.”

The grin on Dollie’s face returned in a flash. “Nevermind that! You’re new to this town, right?”

Morris blinked, not sure if he should admit that he wasn’t actually new, but decided it be best the less she knew, and nodded. “...That’s right.”

Dollie grabbed onto his arm. “Great! Well then how about I show you around?”

“Um…” Morris hesitated, feeling a bit odd in the girls grip. His promise to Clarence came back to mind. “...Sure. That’d...that’d be great, actually.”

 

—-

 

Morris wondered if, when Clarence told him to try new things, a date was one of them. It was a bit extreme, right?

Well, he didn’t have the opportunity to back out of it now, as Dollie escorted him through the streets of a town he already knew, pointing out things and buildings he’d grown up with. And ironically enough, it seemed as Dollie had moved in back when she was in her preteens, and as such actually knew _less_ than Morris, who was born in the small town. However, he was already too deep in this lie anyway, and decided to humor her. He’d occasionally ask questions he already knew the answer to, seeing as Dollie sometimes struggled to come up with the correct answer. Partway in the date, she laughed a little sheepishly.

“It’s a little funny, actually. It’s the first time I’ve ever been the one to know more about this place than someone else,” she scratched the back of her neck nervously. She’d been getting more nervous as their date went on, and there was now a permanent pink tinge to her face, although it was hard to see in the moonlight.

 _Except you don’t._ Morris gave a gentle smile. “I think you know quite a lot,” he lied through his teeth.

“Oh, well of course you’d think that,” Dollie gave a flustered laugh and waved away the compliment. “You’d be surprised by how much I mess up, though.”

“You’re not the best at selling yourself as a good tour guide, you know,” he teased.

Dollie giggled, before pulling him forward again to show him something else.

Morris couldn’t help but feel strange, being on this date. He was used to showing a bit of fake charm when talking to people to hide what he truly thought and did, but that was always with people he kept a professional distance. With this woman, he had to fake intimacy, affection, attraction, all emotions that were far more unfamiliar, and the larger steps made him feel more nervous the longer the date went, wondering when he’d mess up and the whole charade would come crashing down.

Paradoxically enough, the date had also begun reassuring Morris in a different way. With the way Dollie had been staring at him back at the bar, he was sure she was a bounty hunter in hiding, wanting to hunt him down and turn him into El Rey. But the more the date went on, it was clear she was just a bit smitten with his appearance, and that that stare back at the bar had just been attraction.

 _You’ve really never interacted with girls, have you?_ A voice that sounded like Clarence spoke up, but Morris knew that it was just himself. _You don’t know how dates or crushes work, and just assume any close contact or interest is a physical threat._

 _Well, why shouldn’t I?_ Another part of him retorted. _I’m someone who regularly practices magic, someone that a governor would be willing to personally come after. It’s better to be paranoid than in the property of El Rey._

Morris glanced back at Dollie, who was essentially rambling to herself as she explained a town monument in front of them, not realizing that Morris hadn’t been paying attention. He looked back up at the sky, seeing the moon hanging high in the air, and decided that he was at a good point to try and end the date as soon as he got a good opportunity to. _She’s almost done showing off the town anyway, it’ll take less than...twenty minute?._

Morris suppressed a groan; this tour had been nothing if not boring, and keeping up a facade of interest was becoming surprisingly difficult and exhausting. A part of him wished he’d brought Clarence in his bag, so that he could listen to the skeleton’s ramblings rather than Dollie’s. As this date passed on, he was learning more and more that he _really_ didn’t like her: she just droned on and on about uninteresting and annoying drivel, and it made Morris want to bury himself alive with every minute.

The next twenty minutes passed by at an agonizingly slow pace, and by the time the two of them found themselves at the edge of the town, Morris was ready to just walk away from her without so much as a goodbye. But, reminding himself to keep up a good face, he turned back to her.

“It’s getting late, and I think it’s best I turn in for the night, Dollie,” he spoke politely, looking her directly in the eye.

Dollie gave a small smile, and reached down for Morris’ hand. “Please,” Her fingers intertwined into his, and he repressed the urge to pull his hand back and just let it remain limp. “You can call me Doll, you know.”

Morris flashed the sweetest grin he could muster. “But that’d be rude, ma’am.”

He felt Dollie’s grip on his arm loosen a little, and he took it at as a proper sign to gently pull his arm back to his side..

Dollie gave a small smile. “You know, I’ve been showing you all around town, and I can’t help but feel bad. I’ve been a bit overbearing with all the conversations, don’t you think? So um, to make it even, how about,” Dollie leaned in, a bright smile on her face. “You show me around your place?”

Morris felt himself freeze, alarms ringing through his head and eardrums, and he felt himself struggling to say anything. _She wants to go to my home,_ he thought, panicking. _I was wrong she_ is _a bounty hunter she wants to find out where I live she’s going to find my secret and kill me-_

He forcefully put a brick wall over that train of thought that had been charging out of control, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Dollie had noticed his change in demeanor, concern and anxiety in her eyes. He decided there was no way to fix the situation at this point, and instead decided to dedicate his effort to making his tone of voice sound authoritative rather than charming. “There’s no need for that. It’s late. If you really want to, you can find me here again, and maybe when it’s a better time I’ll show you.”

She raised an eyebrow, looking worried. “Well, alright, what time were you thinking of meeting up again, like in a day, or a week, or-

“Actually, let me rephrase that, Dollie,” Morris backpedaled, trying to put more authority into his voice and straightening his posture. “I don’t want you to come home with me. Ever. At all.”

Dollie looked taken aback by his tone, her eyes widened and her eyebrows furrowed. She took a cautious step forward with worry in her eyes. “Mori what’s going on? Is something wrong, are you in danger, or-“

Seeing her get closer made something in Morris’ chest snap.

“I said _go away_!” Morris snarled, putting both of his hands on the center of her chest and forcefully shoving her away from him. She gave a shriek of shock as the force caused her to fall onto the ground, her blue skirt spread out underneath her as she looked up at him in confusion in fear.

Morris stood over her, panting in anger, when he suddenly noticed movement out of the corner of his eyes, and looked over to see heads peering out of doors and through windows of the nearby houses. They must have heard Dollie’s yell, and come to investigate.

He saw their glares, and realized what they must all be thinking, hearing a young woman yell only to see a young man standing over her. Growling in frustration, he looked back down at Dollie, practically shooting venom through his irises, and Dollie flinched under the stare.

“ _Don’t_ follow me, and _never_ talk to me again. I never want to see you again.”

And with that, he whirled around and began to stalk out of sight, away from the judging eyes of the townspeople who _didn’t know a damn thing,_ away from stupid, annoying Dollie.

The bad mood that had been slowly draping itself over Morris since the night began stayed with him the whole walk, and before he realized it he was back at his tiny, isolated cottage. He never thought he could be so happy to step into the doorway.

“ _Mori! You’re back!”_

Morris didn’t respond, simply walking into his room where Clarence was laying on the desk (he’d forgotten to put Clarence in the drawer before he left—that was a reckless and dangerous mistake) and in a swift motion undoing the ponytail in his hair.

 _“...Mori?”_ Clarence’s voice was a lot more hesitant. _“What happened?”_

Morris face planted into the bed next his desk. “It...did not go well.” he mumbled through his pillow.  

He briefly summarized everything that had happened that night: from the alcohol, to Dollie, he explained it all. Clarence was thankfully quiet throughout the whole thing, waiting until Morris was finally done with it all before he spoke up.

_“Morris...I’m so sorry, that it went so poorly.”_

“Yes, well, it’s clear now that most of the town doesn’t like me. I suppose I can’t be too choked up about it, I didn’t care much for most of them.” Morris blinked, realizing what he was just saying. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I ever really cared for _any_ of them.”

_“Not even Mrs. Shelley?”_

“Not even her.”

_“I suppose you’re not going to go back to get that gift?”_

“I don’t want to go back to that town, _period._ I’ll just wait it out, and with any hope she’ll have forgotten next time I need to collect supplies.

_“I’m sorry that you had a bad night, Mori.”_

“You should be.”

_“Yes, well, I suppose you can always shove this back in my face, if I ever decide you should get some more fresh air again?”_

Morris smiled a little through his pillow. “Yes, I suppose I could. You were right, I guess I learned something new in the end.”

_“If that’s how you want to think it, then you can.”_

Morris nodded in his pillow, feeling the exhaustion of his night finally catching up to him in its fullest, and he soon drifted off to nightmares filled with black feathers.

 


	7. Lil' Phil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris and Clarence decide to move

Lil’ Phil lifted a large fist, and after a moment’s hesitation, gave three loud and solid knocks on the wooden door in front of him. He heard someone shifting around inside, and he quietly shifted the body on his shoulder as he waited. His eyes scanned over the small wooden house and the graveyard seated next to it, and gave a small frown. He wasn’t sure why, but something about this place put him off, made him nervous about confronting whoever was inside. Perhaps it was just the corpses? He never decided to become a bounty hunter like his older brothers, and wasn’t nearly as accustomed to death. 

Lil’ Phil furrowed his eyebrows. Speaking of being accustomed to death, what was the undertaker like? He only knew from his questions to the townspeople that this town’s local undertaker was a bit...odd. They didn’t properly explain exactly  _ how  _ he was odd, though. Many said he was just unnerving, but one woman even claimed him to be violent. 

Lil’ Phil pictured a wretched old man on the other side of the door, prone to anger and indifferent to the corpses that end up on his steps. Perhaps he’d have an empty bottle of liquor that he’d want to throw at whoever angered him?

Just as Lil’ Phil had finished constructing his image of what the undertaker looked like the door opened and all of his expectations were promptly thrown into the sunset behind him. 

The undertaker was remarkably young, for starters, barely older than nineteen. He was very thin and composed, his straight back showing the inch or two he had over Lil’ Phil. His thick brown hair was tied back neatly in a ponytail, and his dress shirt and vest showed a proper composure, accentuated with the small glass resting on his nose and the thin beard starting to grow on the end of his chin. 

The only things that clashed against this appearance were the surprisingly dark bags under his eyes and old worn gloves he had on his hands, although Lil’ Phil could guess that was more a result from the job than the undertaker’s own decisions. 

The undertaker raised an eyebrow. “You have a body for me?”

Lil’ Phil blinked, surprised for a moment at how direct the undertaker was being, before realizing that he was holding a body bag over his shoulder and that the undertaker was likely just pointing out the obvious. 

“U-um, yes, it’s my mother.”

The undertaker nodded. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss. Come in, I’ll measure the body while we discuss burial conditions.”

Hesitantly, Lil’ Phil stepped into the small, wooden cabin. The main room was mostly barren, with just a large wooden table that the undertaker gestured for Lil’ Phil to place the body, which he complied. 

“My name’s Lil’ Phil, and my mother there is Susan Wyatt.”

The undertaker’s back was to him as he began measuring the size of the body, carefully unwrapping the bag a little, and Lil’ Phil saw his head bounce a little. “My name’s Morris. Time of death?”

Lil’ Phil continued answering Morris’ questions, and he found himself being impressed by the undertaker’s composure, considering he was handling a body yet wasn’t bothered enough for it to impede his conversation with Lil’ Phil. He was grasping the body quite carefully, especially with his right hand, though Lil’ Phil attributed that to just trying to prevent breaking or catching anything. 

“I’m afraid I can’t provide that much money for you, sir. It took a lot, just to travel to the nearest undertaker.”

Morris lifted the arm of his mother, squinting at the skin. “Don’t worry about that, Little Phil. I often make prices on a case-by-case basis, and my deals are quite to  _ die  _ for.”

Lil’ Phil furrowed his eyebrows, and frowned. “Was that…?”

Morris glanced back, and Lil’ Phil saw a calm and soft smile on his face.”Of corpse not.”

Lil’ Phil’s mouth pressed into a tight line.  _ They were right. This undertaker is definitely a weird man. Pretty rude too. _

The smile on Morris’ face faded a little. “You said she’s your mother, right?”

“That’s right.”

“The only member of your family left?”

Lil’ Phil shook his head. “Um, no, I’ve got...I’ve got some brothers, too.”

Something unreadable flashed across Morris’ face, but it was gone long before Lil’ Phil could figure out what it was. The two of them were quiet for a little while, until Lil’ Phil eventually decided to try and bring up a new topic, just to break the awkward silence between the two of them. 

“What do you offer for coffins?”

“I’ve got several different types of wood, I can bring you into my workshop to show you.”

“I’d like that very much-”

Lil’ Phil was suddenly cut off as Morris flinched away from the corpse, dropping the arm with a  _ thud.  _

“What’s wrong?! What happened!?” Lil’ Phil was immediately on guard. 

Morris’ hands clenched and unclenched into fists for a moment, before he turned around with an easy smile on his face. “It was nothing. I’m afraid I might’ve seen maggots inside the body, it just startled me.”

Lil’ Phil frowned, his stance relaxing. “Um...well, I’d like a nice grave for my mother, even if she can’t get a good coffin. Something like the ones outside in the graveyard?”

Morris nodded. “Alright. Um, I’m going to get something to write down what you want on her grave then. I’m sorry, I may need you to repeat the name and dates again.”

“No worries, I don’t mind.”

Morris gave a curt nod, and quickly strode out of the room. Lil’ Phil stayed where he was standing, patiently tapping his foot, and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited for a little longer. 

Lil’ Phil frowned.  _ How long does it take to grab a piece of paper and a writing utensil?  _ He thought, before shrugging it off.  _ He may have just misplaced it,  _ I _ lose my things all the time and searching for them can be a nightmare.  _

However, he was still getting bored with all this standing. He glanced around the bare walls of the room, hoping to see something that would distract him, but eventually his gaze could only rest on the bag across from him. The bag had been pulled over to cover the corpse’s face again, and Lil’ Phil frowned, crossing his arms as he thought. 

_ She’s going to be buried soon enough,  _ he told himself.  _ Maybe you should see her one last time? Or say something.  _

Taking a deep, nervous breath, he took a few careful steps towards the table.  _ This is a bad idea,  _ he told himself.  _ Do you really want to remember your mother like this, rotting on the table of a stranger? _

Yet despite what he was telling himself, his arm almost seemed to move on its own, and it slowly reached over and grasped the edge of the body bag, and pulled it away from the head. 

She looked worse than when she’d first died, and yet not. Lil’ Phil narrowed his eyes in confusion. Why did she somehow seem younger, almost lively? Her cheeks were ghastly and pale, the hair ragged, the eyes focused in on him-

Lil’ Phil gave a yell of surprise as he jumped back, stumbling and slamming into the floor.  _ The eyes. That’s  _ what made her seem so... _ alive.  _ They stayed focused on him, even as he moved away, and Lil’ Phil watched in horror as the corpse began sitting up on its own on the table, the opening of the bag falling down its arms. It turned its head like it was stuck on a malfunctioning gear and seemed to stare straight into Lil’ Phil’s eyes, making his blood run cold and fixing him to the spot on the floor. 

“I heard a noise! What happened-“ Morris ran into the doorway, before suddenly freezing at the sight before him. Lil’ Phil heard a sharp gasp come from him, and glanced over to see the undertaker’s eyes wide in fear. He opened his mouth to ask for help, but something stopped him. It was the way the undertaker’s face was, where he was looking, something was  _ off  _ about it. 

And that was when Lil’ Phil realized that Morris’ gaze was squarely focused on him. 

_ He’s not afraid of the corpse.  _

“M-magic!” He yelled, desperately trying to reach to his belt loop and grab the knife strapped to it. “You’re magic!”

“What?! No, no no no-“ Morris’ denial was cut off as the corpse gave a dry noise and tilted its head at Morris expectantly. 

Feeling his heart racing down at his chest, Lil’ Phil looked down to undo the strap on his belt, as fiddling with it wasn’t fast enough. 

Soon enough it was out, and he quickly pulled it out and began to stand back up. But as he looked up, he had a brief moment to see Morris right in front of him, a shovel reeled back. 

He felt cold fire flare up on the right side of his jaw just before everything lost its clarity. 

 

—-

 

Little Phil fell to the ground immediately after the first strike. Morris flinched at the sound he made as he collided with the wood floor, holding the shovel close to his chest. His mind flashed back to the way Kerr limply fell, dead after one strike. 

_ Is he...is he… _

Little Phil gave a groan, shifting a little, and panic immediately gripped Morris’ nerves once again, and before he knew it he had swung the shovel back down on his head. He lifted it up, afraid to see the man try and stand up once more, and slammed the shovel down again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Over and over, he kept swinging, the way the metal beat against Little Phil’s body almost like a rhythm, and Morris was completely lost in the fearful music. 

He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he felt something small, warm and wet streak across his left cheek. He brushed it with his fingertips, verifying it was there, before looking back down at the body with clarity. 

Red had burst from the man’s head like a star, staining his clothes, the floor around it, and the front of Morris. He looked down at himself, seeing the red droplets dotted across his grey vest and white shirt. He glanced at the red-stained shovel, and immediately dropped it and backed away from the corpse, before speeding into a full-on sprint into the other room. 

_ “Morris!”  _ he heard Clarence yell as Morris pulled him out of his desk drawer.  _ What was that noise I heard, what happ-” _

Clarence cut himself off as he saw the red sprayed across Morris’ chest and terrified expression, and no doubt was feeling the way his hands were shaking as he held the skull. 

_ “Morris…” _

“He has a  _ family,  _ Clarence,” Morris choked out. “A family that’s going to come looking for him, I  _ know _ it. They’re going to find me Clarence, I, I don’t know what to do!”

_ “Morris, how did this happen!” _

“I’d accidentally turned the corpse into a vassal in front of him, I’d come in here to get the book and find the instructions to switch it back! I, I don’t know why the vassal didn’t stay still like I told it to, it started moving in front of the man, I panicked! Now I’ve got another dead man, and if I don’t do something I’m next!” Morris hurriedly explained, grabbing the necromancy book and carrying Clarence in the room to show him the mess, placing him on the table. 

_ “Calm down Morris, take a deep breath, you can’t concentrate when you’re panicking like this.” _

Morris nodded, obeying his friend’s commands. “What...what should I do? My mind’s...my mind’s drawing a blank.”

_ “Don’t worry.”  _ A pause.  _ “Revive the corpse.” _

_ Of, of course.  _ He thought to himself as he took a step towards the body. His lip curled a little.  _ Of  _ corpse.  _ It was a pretty good joke, it’s a shame he didn’t like it. _

He carefully rested his hand on the body’s shoulder, and it jerked up at the contact, making Morris flinch. It stared at him one empty, glassy eye, awaiting orders, and Morris had to swallow to try and help his parched throat. 

“Stand up,” he quietly murmured, and the corpse immediately obeyed, the blood from the injury on its head scattering around it. Morris couldn’t help but wince a little at the sight, knowing that each drop of blood would require more cleaning. 

He stared down at the bloodstain the body was moving off of, and glanced over at Clarence. “How can I expect to clean this up? I can’t spare the extra water,” he looked down at the front of his shirt. “These clothes, too.”

Clarence was silent for a little while, and Morris kept his gaze to the ground as the corpse stood there, expectant. It seemed the skull wasn’t sure how to respond, and that was when Morris realized that he was just as scared and panicked as Morris was. 

And that realization made Morris’ body chill over and his mind clear. 

“I can’t stay here,” Morris didn’t even realize he said it out loud until he heard Clarence reply. 

_ “Wait, what?! What are you talking about?” _

Morris looked up at the corpse, ignoring Clarence’s words. “Go outside and dig a grave for yourself. Make it slightly bigger than necessary, let it fit two people.”

He took a moment to watch the corpse open the door and leave the house, before giving a passing glance at the bloodstain in the wood and stepping over it to move back into his room. 

_ “Morris, what are you doing?” _

Not responding, Morris quickly changed out of the white shirt he was wearing, taking a brief moment to look at the tiny red spots scattered across it, before getting out his only other available, a plain off-color dress shirt and getting into it. He stepped out of his room before looking down at the pants, and after a moment of thought went back into the room and changed those too. He folded them up along with the dress shirt and placed the stained gloves on top of the pile, holding them in his hands as he stepped back out of the door.

_ “Mori, stop ignoring me,”  _ Clarence commanded with a stern voice. 

“I’m sorry about that, my thoughts are running through me so quickly. So here’s the situation: I’ve decided to finally leave this place.”

_ “I heard you the first time. And I’m asking you  _ why. _ ” _

“That man has a family,” Morris gestured to the door, where he knew some distance past it a corpse was busy digging its own grave. “A family that likely knew he was coming here to bury his mother, and when he doesn’t come back they’re going to eventually go to the place they knew he was last. I can’t clean this entire mess without risking depleting my water supply.”

“ _ You could replace the floorboards.” _

“Wood’s harder to come by out here in the West, it’d be expensive. We’ve been through something similar before, remember how much  _ this  _ cost?” Morris paused from his collecting of small miscellaneous items to point to the inconspicuous carpet in the center of his room. He pulled a carpet aside to reveal a small trapdoor in the floorboards, the wood neat and new compared to the rest of the floor.  

It was a little storage area he decided to create in his room in case of an emergency, a decision he was grateful for now. He thought back to how much he’d had to save just for the materials, and had to build it himself to avoid extra costs. Inside the storage was a pair of bony hands, a second notebook for translating the necromancy book, a couple extra rolls of gauze and various other miscellaneous (and dead) things he wanted to keep hidden. He grabbed a somewhat small messenger bag and began putting everything inside of it. 

_ “But it could still be done.” _

“I suppose, but-“ Morris cut himself off with a sigh, pausing what he was doing. “I’m, I’m  _ tired  _ of being here, Clarence. There’s no reason to stay, no one to stay for. I’m just holed up in this tiny cabin, hunched over my book as I wait for someone to catch me.”

He looked out the window. “When I walked back into that room to see the corpse standing over that man, I remember thinking ‘this is it, I’ve finally been found, I’m done for.’ If those are eventually going to be my last thoughts, I don’t want to have them after spending years cowering in some stuffy house.”

_ “I…” _

Morris finished filling up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder and walking back to Clarence. “Eventually, someone’s going to come here and figure out what I’ve done--the murder, at least. I need to make sure I get a lot of distance before it happens.”

He gently picked up Clarence, placing the skull inside a pocket of the messenger bag that he’d reserved specifically to hold him. The top of the skull poked out of the top, and he draped the top of the bag over it to cover it up, making sure to not strap it completely closed. 

_ “Mori…” _

Morris stopped what he was doing, looking down at the bag. 

_ “I still think this is reckless and dangerous, but if it’s really what you want, then I'm’ not going to stop you. You’re right, at least a little: it wouldn’t do you or your gifts any good if it all rotted away in here.” _

Morris gave a sad smile, before beginning to walk to the door. As he was moving, his gaze glanced down at his bare arms, and he froze in his tracks. He lifted his hand, observing the now somewhat old scar on the palm of his hand. The scar that had started this mess in the first place. 

Morris laughed a little to himself at that. If he hadn’t mistakenly revived that corpse, perhaps he’d never end up with the proper incentive to leave. He could almost be grateful for those late nights teaching himself to write with his left hand as the cut had been healing.

Almost. 

Still, the scar posed a serious problem as always. They couldn’t be seen. Pursing his lips, Morris stalked back into his room and quickly pulled out one of his spare pairs of gloves from his desk, along with a few other spares just in case. 

Taking a deep breath and nodding, he looked over his inventory once more, and began heading towards the door again, satisfied. As he approached the doorway, his eyes caught on to the coathanger on the other wall of the room, and the long overcoat hanging on it. Morris’ eyebrows furrowed, vaguely remembering Lil’ Phil removing his coat before entering into the room. He hesitated for a moment before reaching over and grabbing it off of the hook, trying to fit his arms into the sleeves. The coat was a little short on him, unsurprisingly, but Lil’ Phil certainly had broad shoulders. They slipped down his shoulders a little, and he had to press the coat to himself to make it fit him to any proper degree. He eventually buttoned it all together, making the coat seem more like a baggy robe, but it still worked. He supposed it’d be best if he avoided any of his own clothing, so that it’d be harder for him to be recognized. 

Motioning for the corpse of Phil’s mother to follow, he stepped out into the cool night air, looking over to see the Phil himself standing next to a large hole. He walked over to it, pulling out the stained clothes from his bag and tossing it into the grave. “Now get in,” he pointed, looking at both of the vassals. 

They complied, lying down in the bottom of the hole, and slowly Morris began filling it up with dirt. 

It took less than twenty minutes to fill it back up, and Morris gave the top of the grave a pat with his shovel for good luck. With that, he stabbed it into the ground, and turned back towards the horizon. 

“Well Clarence, where do you suppose we should head to now?”

_ “You’re the one with this genius plan, Mori. And last I heard, you just want to get as far away from here.” _

Morris laughed to himself, adjusting the coat hanging off his shoulders. “Alright then, let’s follow it, shall we?” He stared off in a random direction, and pointed. “I say we head that way, then.”

He heard the skull chuckle.  _ “Alright then. Lead the way.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morris Murder Count™: 2
> 
> Don't worry, this'll get higher :D
> 
> Consider this to be a bit of an end to the first part of this story. I'm not sure exactly how many parts this will have total (I've got about three planned so far), considering I'm not entirely sure where the show is going.


	8. Battle in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris discovers that living on his own has its own problems and complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, this part of Morris' life was actually supposed to be mostly brushed over and then suddenly I ended up with a ton of different ideas to write in it, so here we are! Still, I'm going to try and get this particular section done with as soon as I can, probably only taking like five chapters? This chapter was actually supposed to be twice as long, but it's been a bit slow to write and as such decided to split the thing in two (the same might be done to future chapters, who knows)

“Are you sure about this, Clarence?”

_ “Of course. In all honesty, I expected you to be  _ jumping  _ at this opportunity to learn more. Why hesitate?” _

“Because it’s  _ risky,  _ Clarence,” Morris explained, his hand hovering over the skull of the large beast before them. He had only seen crude drawings of the monster before him in the library, apparently a common monster before it died out as the lands dried up. It had four horns on its head, one on the end of the snout and three at the top almost like a crown. It had a long, mostly intact spine, but Morris wasn’t sure if he could say the same for the limbs, considering they were completely out of sight. “We’re on the run now, and reviving something like  _ this  _ will no doubt turn some heads.”

_ “But I’ve almost never seen you revive an animal back in town, and we don’t know if there’s a size limit to your vassals! We have to try this, Mori!” _

Morris chewed on the inside of his cheek, sighing. “I hate how much of a point you have,” he grumbled as he placed his palm on the forehead of the monster. 

The monster didn’t immediately begin reanimating itself, but Morris didn’t let himself worry; he knew that with larger creatures the resurrection process would take longer, the book itself had outlined that explicitly. He’d have to wait a few seconds before seeing if something was truly wrong. 

_ “You know, Morris, I can’t believe that it took me such a time to point this out, but your eyes glow when you use that symbol, you know?” _

“H-huh?” Morris looked down at his bag, where the flap was opened up to reveal Clarence. “Really?”

_ “Really. Your eyes light up when it happens. It looks kind of like a really pale teal. Do you think that’s the color of your magic?” _

Morris frowned. “Perhaps. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen another magic user work, but if so, I’m going to need to be more careful about using magic in public.” 

_ “Perhaps we can run some tests later, see if your eyes glow with all magic you try, and if closing your eyes will cover it.” _

The large monster skull twitched--making Morris jump a little--and began putting itself back together, although it was definitely slower than the creation of a human vassal, which wasn’t at all surprising. As it slowly stretched to its full height, Morris could see large, deteriorated bone rising out of the sand and form claws to push the beast up. The necromancer counted each that came up: all four were there. 

“Do you remember what this thing is called, Clarence?”

_ “I don’t remember their name, but I know they’re  _ very  _ rare. It’s hard to find such big monsters out here in Nowhere anymore, with so little vegetation and water to sustain them.” _

The creature stretched up to its full size--standing at twice Morris’ height--before the familiar white lights finally appeared in its empty sockets, staring down at Morris expectantly. A few seconds passed. He swallowed nervously at the gaze. “Do you think this one will be difficult to control?”

_ “No doubt, considering its size compared to what you’re used to. It’s doing surprisingly well though, so who knows.” _

Morris nodded. “I’ll need to deactivate it eventually, there’s no way I can keep something this small hidden,” he smiled to himself, seeing the monster tilt its head. “Still, this is  _ quite  _ remarkable, I’ll admit that.”

The monster let out a deep growl that was so loud that Morris had to remind himself that the sound was only in his head. He jumped as he felt something brush against his pant leg, and looked down to see that the monster was nudging him with the end of its snout, the horn on its nose dangerously close to scratching him. 

Morris furrowed his eyebrows, staring down at the skull. “What’s it doing?”

_ “Did you command it to do that?” _

“No, no I didn't. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s not acting completely to my will, considering the limits of my magic.”

_ “Maybe it’s just acting how it would in life?” _

Morris hummed in thought, carefully lowering his hand and stroking the top of the skull, near the base of one of its horns. The creature gave another noise, although it was much softer and more affectionate, and Morris gave a small laugh at the reaction. “I think you’re onto something. Perhaps it’s acting like it usually would, but favors me because of the magic?”

Without even waiting for Clarence’s response, he began to pull his notebook out from his bag along with a pencil. “I’ll need to test this theory with another creature, see if it does the same. How do I get such limited control, though?”

The creature nudged at Morris’ leg again, making him jerk a little and draw a long line across the page, and he laughed as he pressed its skull down with his hand as best he could. “Oh, imagine how magnificent this beast would have looked in life! It must have been quite the sight!”

_ “It already is.” _

“Well, I suppose you’re right.”

The rest of the evening was surprisingly pleasant with the new creature as company for the both of them. Morris had needed to collect some fuel to start a campfire, and the large monster--which Morris had decided to call Wylt, a name he’d found in the Y’dalan book--bounced between patiently watching Morris work and nudging him for attention, not taking nearly enough care to not bruise him in the leg with the giant horn on the end of its snout. 

Still, Morris couldn’t help but laugh at the behavior. Not only was it strange to see such a formidable and intimidating creature act so childishly, but each moment he interacted with it, he felt a thrill rush through him at the thought that  _ he  _ did this,  _ he  _ revived it. The fact that he could actually cast necromancy after so many years of studying was already unbelievable to him--even if it was still basic spells--but he’d never truly realized how much power and potential this magic had. 

He stared up at the large, skeletal body of the monster sitting across from him on the other side of the campfire, the warm glow flickering across its pale bones against the dark and glittering night sky. 

_ Nowhere is filled with dead creatures, especially out here in the desert  _ kept repeating in his mind, and he felt indescribably excited to see where his new journey would take him, now that he was finally out of that stuffy, dusty old cabin of his.

_ “Ha? See? Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”  _ Clarence spoke up, his voice a little smug, likely noticing Morris’ look of awe and wonder at Wylt. 

Morris let out a little chuckle at the skull’s tone as he began to settle down on the ground, Phil’s jacket on his back being the only bedding he had. “You and I both know that we need to be careful now that we’re out in the open. Magic is still forbidden, and using it recklessly is bound to result in trouble.”

Morris heard the shifting of bones, and his head jerked over to see that Wylt had moved to Morris’ side, and had begun to settle back down on the ground in a way that enveloped the necromancer. He grinned at the realization of what it was doing. “But yes,” he acquitted, “This is quite amazing, and I’m glad that you convinced me to revive it.”

_ “Exactly,”  _ Clarence sounded satisfied.  _ “It’ll be able to double as a guard, too!” _

Morris pursed his lips. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” _ ,  _

He tilted his head back on his arm, staring up at the night sky, the light of the campfire just barely out of sight. He took a deep breath, relaxing himself. “Goodnight, Clarence.”

He didn’t even hear the skull’s response, as he soon fell asleep afterwards, tired after a day of travel in the hot sun.

 

\---

 

Morris wasn’t immediately sure why he found himself waking up to a night sky again. His world was a soft blur, and the necromancer rapidly began blinking to wipe away the mist. 

_ “...M—ris-!” _

As his surroundings entered clarity, Morris’ senses immediately sharpened as he realized that he could hear  _ voices. Many  _ of them. 

“Is there someone in that skeleton?”

“Do you think he’s got anything good on him?”

_ “Morris! Wake up!” _

Morris’ eyes snapped open, and he jerked upwards to stare at the source of the sound. In the darkness and dizziness he could only see dark shapes jump back and murmur to each other in rapid curses. 

_ They want to rob me?  _ Anger twitched onto Morris’ face, and he felt acknowledgement course through him as Wylt responded to his wishes. 

“Woah, what’s with his eyes?!”

“Wait, look!”

Morris almost didn’t realize that Wylt had unraveled itself, standing tall over the small group of thieves. A deep, furious growl emanated from its empty ribcage, and the following roar that rang out through his skull drowned out the screams of the men. 

“Dark magic!” One of them yelled, and Morris saw his shadow quickly dash towards him. His senses now fully restored, Morris immediately jumped away from the thief’s attack, but he wasn’t fast enough.

He felt a sharp sting run across his forearm, and Morris instinctively placed a palm over the cut as a red blade glinted in the moonlight.  

Pressing his lips together, Morris reached into his bag and pulled out his own knife, brandishing it at his attacker. The thief didn’t seem to notice, swinging his dagger and missing by a hair as the necromancer shifted out of the way. 

Morris took the window of opportunity, lunging at the thief and feeling a sick satisfaction and sense of relief filling his gut as the knife dug into the shoulder of the man. Morris disregarded to cry of pain in his ear, pulling his blade out with a single swift motion and kicking the thief away. 

The man held onto his bloody shoulder, curling up on the ground, and Morris took advantage of the moment to see where the others were. 

He could see a couple human-shaped shadows waving in a panic at the large monster blocking their path, swinging its claws and horns in an attempt to impale its enemies. 

The thieves were yelling orders at each other, frantically dodging Wylt’s attacks, and paid little to no attention to Morris. 

The chance was as clear as daylight in front of him. 

_ “Morris, you need to get out of here!” _

The necromancer stared at the battle before him with wide eyes, feeling his thoughts beating through his skull as he desperately thought of other plans. 

But none came to the top of his mind, except for the obvious. 

_ Escape.  _

_ “Morris! You can’t let them see your face! Run!” _

That did it. Morris could feel his feet pulling him away, making him turn and begin sprinting in the other direction. He didn’t even hear the yells of the thieves and the roars of Wylt, with the way the sound of his own heartbeat was filling his ears. 

The moon slowly made its way across the sky, and all throughout it Morris kept running. 

He ran even though he felt he could hardly breathe through his throat. 

He ran even as the night began to fade away. 

He barely noticed the stinging in his arm or the warm, red blood drying up around his arm..

He didn’t even notice that Clarence had gone silent through it. 

He hadn’t even realized that the day was coming until the sun suddenly peaked over the horizon, blinding the necromancer and making him stop to shield his eyes from the light. 

His breathless caught up to him like a hammer through his ribcage, and Morris took deep, almost gasping breaths as he looked at his present surroundings flashing in between dark spots in his vision. 

It was mostly sand in sight, with no trace of the thieves or Wylt. Not even Morris’ footprints were visible, the wind already wiping away their presence. Up ahead was a small plateau facing away from the sun.

Wylt was gone; the realization had already settled in those hours of running, but all throughout that time it hadn’t made him any less upset. He felt water gathering at the corners of his eyes, and he almost aggressively wiped them away, screwing his eyes tight to keep the sand out. Water was precious, he couldn’t waste it on such soft emotions. 

When he blinked them back open, he stared down at his arms, at his gloved palms, and the cut on his forearm that had already mostly scabbed over. It was surprisingly deep, and Morris chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing that he didn’t have a chance to clean the cut in any way. He supposed it didn’t matter, considering he didn’t have enough water to even cry, let alone clean a cut. Sighing, he pulled some gauze out of his bag and wrapped the wound in a thin layer before cutting it away. It would have to be enough. 

Morris glanced over at the plateau, slowly walking towards it. As he approached, he saw it bend inwards into a small hole facing away from the sun. 

It was tiny, but with only Morris he could fit. 

Seeing the small bit of shelter made Morris realize just how exhausted he was, not having a full rest and having relied on adrenaline for the past couple of hours to cover a large distance. Sighing, he lifted his bag off of his shoulder and set it aside. He gingerly spread Phil’s Jacket across the ground before crouching down and shifting backwards to fit as best he could. Reaching for his bag and dragging it closer, Morris pulled Clarence out and stared deep into the eye’s sockets. 

_ “...Hey, Morris.” _

“You’ve been quiet.”

_ “I assumed you were mad at me. Or at the very least, didn’t want to speak.” _

Morris sighed through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. “No, no, of course not, I’d never be angry with you, Clarence. I’m...I’m just a little tired, is all.”

_ “Hm. Alright.” _

Morris glanced over at the horizon in front of him, slowly lighting up as the sun slid up the sky. Blinking slowly and stifling a yawn, Morris set Clarence down in front of him, pushing the skull into the sand a little. “Could you stand watch again? I’m going to try and rest for at least another hour.”

_ “Of course, Mori.” _

Morris gave a small, tired smile at the response, feeling both relieved and a little more secure as he buried his head into his arms, and settled into the cool shade with a soft sigh. He fell asleep almost immediately, and found himself thrust into yet another nightmare just as quickly, filled with hordes of crows with red, catlike eyes staring him down. 

 

—-

Morris woke back up covered in sand and somewhat nauseous, but nonetheless a little more rested. 

_ “Mori? Are you up?” _

“Almost,” Morris yawned, tilting his head and feeling a few satisfying cracks at the base of his neck. “Seen anyone?”

_ “None, don’t worry. There is a different problem, though.” _

Raising his eyebrows at the comment, Morris began shifting back and forth, slowly crawling out of the hole and scanning the surrounding desert. “Where are we?” 

_ “That’s the problem.” _

Morris gave a tired chuckle at Clarence’s dry tone, his eyelids still feeling heavy for some reason. But the skull was right; the expanse of sand and wind before them was entirely unfamiliar, and there wasn’t even the barest glimpse of civilization on the horizon. “Wow, I ran quite far, didn’t I?” He chuckled.

Morris expected his giggling to quickly die down, but instead it only seemed to escalate further and further until he suddenly found himself burying his face in his hands from his hysterical laughter. 

“ _ Um, Mori?” _

Morris didn’t respond, he just kept on laughing. 

_ “Mori, I’m really starting to get worried for you.” _

Morris gave a dry sigh. “And why wouldn’t you be?”

He glanced down at the slightly loose bandage across his arm, peeling it off his skin with care. He felt his stomach sink as he saw a thin line of pale pus covering the cut on his arm, and cursed under his breath. 

_ “What is it?” _

“The cut,” Morris explained, tearing off the rest of the gauze and using it to wipe the pus away. “It got infected.”

_ “Oh dear! We need to find someplace to treat it!” _

Morris wrapped his cut again, this time making sure it was more tightly wound, before looking back at his surroundings. “Yes, but where?”

_ “U-um, I…”  _ Clarence was stammering. 

Morris sighed.  _ Time to do this again, I suppose.  _ Morris closed spinning himself a few times before pointing in a random direction. He opened his eyes again: he was pointing northwest. Picking up all of his things, Morris began to move in that direction. “Keep an eye socket out for any towns, alright?”

 

—-

 

It wasn’t until the sun was was just beginning its descent into the horizon that Morris found himself upon a trace of civilization: an oil rig with three very welcoming people. The necromancer had briefly considered robbing them or killing them to experiment with magic, but decided that he had better priorities.The only name he remembered out of the trio was Paul, who was the one that gave Morris directions for the nearest town, where he’d likely find some medicine. 

And boy, did Morris need it. His throat was already getting sore, and his eyelids felt almost stuck to his eyes with how difficult it was getting to open them: He had already gotten sick.  

Soon night would come, he comforted himself, and it’d be a little easier to travel with the cooler temperatures. It unfortunately also meant that he’d be more tempted to close his eyes in the comfort. He kept himself walking, although his posture was so poor he almost seemed to be trying to sleep standing up. 

_ “Morris? You need to rest.” _

“Relax, Cla-” Morris was interrupted by a tired yawn. “Clarence. I’ve stayed up longer than this before. I can handle this.”

_ “But that was back when you were  _ healthy, _ ”  _ Clarence sounded exasperated.  _ “Your body’s exhausted, you can’t just push yourself like you always do.” _

“Well, I’m sorry to say, but that’s not an option. I need to get that medicine as soon as I can and get back to my travels. Who knows if those bandits have defeated Wylt and have begun trying to track me down? I can’t fight in this state.”

_ “‘Course you can’t, you can barely even walk,”  _ Clarence was beginning to sound annoyed. 

“Quiet, you,” Morris snipped, pulling the flap down on his bag, even though he knew it wouldn’t work. The skull thankfully obeyed him though, leaving the necromancer in blissful and unfortunate silence. 

 

—-

 

“Anything else you want, sir?” 

Morris slammed the shot glass onto the counter, glancing back up at the bartender, who was looking at him with a concerned expression. The necromancer waved the glass a little. “A refill, if you could.” He gave a hard smile, his lips pressed tightly together.

Nodding slightly, the man took the glass and vanished into the back, leaving Morris all alone to his thoughts. He hunched his shoulders, keeping his gaze down on the counter, seeing several strands of his hair wave by his forehead like a curtain; His ponytail was coming undone, but he didn’t particularly care to fix it. What was more concerning for Morris were the bright lights shining through the windows of the bar, making Morris’ headache worse than it already was. He’d come to this bar in the hopes of getting some more shade from the blinding sun, as well as anything to parch his dry tongue, and yet here he was, not feeling any better. 

“Your drink, sir,” The clinking of glass on wood startled Morris out of his brooding, and he glanced at the alcohol in the shot glass for a brief moment. He didn’t remember the name of it, and he didn’t care. He hated alcohol with a passion, but with no more water supplies he knew it was better than nothing. 

“Thank you,” Morris murmured, nodding and pulling out a few coins from his bag. 

He dropped them on the counter, watching them bounce a little as he drank, taking a little bit of enjoyment at the way the bartender seemed to fumble with catching them. He didn’t seem particularly annoyed at Morris, but he kept looking back at the necromancer with a strange expression, his thick eyebrows furrowed and his brown eyes boring holes into Morris’ cheeks. 

“What?” Morris paused in his sipping. 

The mustache on the bartender’s lip twitched. “It’s, it’s just...are you alright, sir? You look quite pale and disheveled.”

“Thanks,” Morris glanced away, taking another sip. “The light is too bright for me, is all.”

“U-um, excuse me?”

“Why do you think I’m drinking?” Morris’ voice got a little louder, a strange irritated edge on it. “Your light,” he waved at the windows. “Is too bright. Poetry.” He murmured the last part under his breath as he downed the rest of the glass. 

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand.”

“I need to pass out,” Morris groaned, pressing his face into his hands and hunching forward, his forehead almost touching the counter. “Or die. Whichever comes sooner.”

He heard a small tink as the shot glass was picked up. “...I think that’s enough for you today, sir.”

“Pft! Fine!” Morris yelled, swinging his head back up and swaying a little from the movement. He reached into his pouch, grabbing the first thing he could feel and slamming it down on the counter. 

The bartender stared down at the fingerbone in front of him in confusion, reaching out a tentative hand to roll it over. “Uh, what is this?”

“Keep the change,” Morris waved, already walking out the door with his coat hanging over his shoulders, ignoring the way both his world and his legs seemed to be swimming. 

 

\---

 

_ “Come on Mori, I believe in you, just take deep breaths,”  _ Clarence’s voice was calm, but it did little to placate Morris’ wired nerves. 

“That’s easy for you to say,” Morris snapped, his voice a little harsher than he intended. “You don’t have lungs to breathe. Or a stomach to drink all that  _ demonic water- _ ”

Morris’ spiteful sentence was cut off with another bout of dry heaving, and he crouched himself into a small ball, keeping his face hidden from any possible passerbys. He glanced up at the entrance to the alleyway he was hiding in, seeing few people walk in and out of view, and felt some level of relief at that. He wouldn’t be shaming himself even moreafter his stupid decision to travel to the bar.

He rubbed his face in frustration, feeling his stomach still stirring with a bit of nausea--although it wasn’t nearly as bad, thankfully enough. God, he was such and  _ idiot _ ! Why would he, a  _ necromancer,  _ decide to go out drinking? Who knew what sort of secrets he could’ve let slip in that intoxicated state. 

_ “Mori?”  _ Clarence must have heard the undertaker’s breathing even out.  _ “Are you feeling better?” _

“Hardly,” Morris groaned. “Do you know what I gave that bartender? Not only did waste the last of our money, but I gave him a  _ fingerbone,  _ Clarence! And if I remember correctly, it’s one with engravings on it!”

He heard Clarence gasp.  _ “What?! Is the symbol functional?” _

Morris sighed. “No, no, no they’re not. Any of my tests on the fingerbones haven’t been successful, it’s difficult to carve in such detailed symbols on that tiny bone without the magic not working. That’s a slight relief. Still, what if he recognizes the patterns? What then?”

_ “Well…”  _ Morris knew that if Clarence had a hand, he’d be rubbing his chin.  _ “Considering that it’s been a few hours and he hasn’t been raising the alarms at this point, you may very well be in the clear.” _

“Yes, well, I suppose in  _ that  _ regard, I am,” Morris chuckled harshly, rubbing his forehead for the headache that had still remained, despite or because of all that alcohol. “But what about everything else? I’ve got no money, no water, no medicine, and this infection is only getting worse! What am I supposed to do?”

He glanced over to his bandaged arm, seeing the wrapping much thinner than before. He was already through his first roll of gauze, and it had only been a few weeks since he first left his home. Some sweat gathered on Morris’ forehead, and he wiped it away, the skin contact almost feeling like it was burning with his breath. He let out a deep sigh, tilting his head back and letting it bounce a little off of the building. He placed an arm over his eyes to shield them from the light. “You know, I really never expected to be missing the stuffy little cabin, and so soon. Quite ironic, huh?”

_ “We had no choice, Mori. We were going to be tracked down by that man’s family, we had to leave.” _

“I know, I know, Clarence, I told you that myself,” Morris mumbled through his hands. “Yet here I am, on the run, sick, and without supplies. I keep getting worse by the day. What do I do?”

_ “You need to calm down first, Mori. We just need money, is all. The situation could be worse. We may be on the run, but we’re not actively being chased, this could be a good chance to let yourself recover if we have the chance.” _

Morris chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Seems sound, except you’ve seemed to skip one important step. Where do you think we could possibly get some money so quickly?”

Clarence was silent for a moment.  _ “There’s...there’s a very successful business passing through here. I’ve heard they make lots of money, I think it’ll be ideal to nab some bills from them once they arrive, I doubt they’ll even notice.” _

“Oh Clarence, you’re such an awful influence,” Morris tilted his head back, chuckling to himself, staring up at the inky night sky with searing and sinking eyelids. “What business do you speak of? Merchants? Politicians?”

_ “No,”  _ Morris was feeling more tired by the minute, and as such almost missed what the skull said next.  _ “A travelling circus.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh one of my favorite aspects of NoN is its absolutely stellar cast of one-off characters, they're all so great, so you bet your ass I'm gonna try and shove as many of them in here, from tiny cameo to full on fuckin ARCS 
> 
> Gotta say, I'm excited for this particular one!


	9. The Traveling Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris tries thievery for the first time and takes a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! The first half of this chapter was challenging and other projects got in the way. 
> 
> Also TW/CW for violence against animals (mice, specifically)

Morris hadn’t realized he’d passed out until he felt something cold and hard tapping against his brow. He groaned, slowly cracking his eyes open in pain at the light shining through. His migraine was unbelievable, it made Morris want to drive a knife through his skull to stop it. 

Another tap at his head made him blink, quickly adjusting himself to the light. He could hear something ringing in his ears, and Morris slowly lifted his head at the realization that there was a shadow casting over him. It took another few seconds for the ringing in Morris’ ears to fade away, and for him to realize that someone was speaking to him.

“...Hello? Are you alright?”

Morris furrowed his brows, slowly shifting his legs and grimacing at how sore they felt. He glanced around, seeing that he had been leaning up against a well, sitting on top of his legs, and he groaned as he slowly began to stretch them out. He looked back up, flinching a little as he realized something was being held in his face. 

Morris blinked rapidly, staring at the face of the bartender from the previous night, bending down and holding the bottle of water in front of him. He narrowed his eyes, slowly taking the glass bottle in his hands and uncapping it. “I knew you had access to water.”

“Aside from the fact that I need to drink water just like any other, sometimes I need to dilute the drinks. Have you been passed out here all night?”

Morris didn’t immediately reply, simply bringing the bottle to his lips and feeling instant relief at the taste of the cold water in his dried throat. The bartender placed a hand on the bottle. “Careful there, you don’t want to drink too quickly after being so dehydrated.”

Morris coughed. It felt like it’d take an ocean’s worth of water to parch his throat. “Dehydrated? What do you mean?”

“Drinking alcohol makes you more dehydrated, and it was clear you weren’t doing well before that. Can’t say I’m surprised ”

“What?”

“Did you not know that?” The bartender frowned. “How old are you?”

Morris didn’t feel inclined to answer that, clearing his throat and taking another sip of water. “...Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem kid, just try and take care of yourself a bit more.”

Morris coughed. “I’m trying.”

The bartender nodded. “Alright. You can keep that bottle, just make sure to pace yourself with that water. I can’t provide much after that, though. Good luck.”

Morris gave a slight nod, keeping his gaze focused on the bartender as he began walking back out of the alley, when he suddenly stopped. 

“Oh! That reminds me-” The bartender fished around for something in his pocket, before dropping the fingerbone in Morris’ hand. “You forgot this last night.”

“...Thanks…” Morris drew the word out cautiously, watching the bartender’s retreating back and wondering if he was going to ask about it. But soon enough the man was around the corner, and Morris let out a sigh of relief. 

_ “What a strange man.” _

“Definitely,” Morris murmured, not sure if anyone was within hearing range. He glanced down at the glass bottle in one hand, and the bone in the other. “He didn’t need to come find me, or do any of this.”

_ “Seems like the type to become invested in someone else’s problems.” _

“Absolutely. Let’s hope we don’t meet him again.”

 

—-

 

The mouse could smell something in the air, something delicious. It quickly scampered over, only to stop at the edge of its hole, realizing the smell was somewhere out in the open. It looked ahead to see a small pile of scraps laid out just ahead. It was quite large, considering how much garbage the mouse would usually have to forage through to get an amount of food like that. 

Still, it had to be cautious. It stuck its twitching nose in the air, keeping an eye out for any predators: nothing. Cautiously, the mouse took another step, and did another surveying of its surroundings: still nothing. It repeated the cycle, over and over again, until it was within reach of the pile for it to reach out a paw and grab the nearest piece; a small chunk of bread attached to some paper. 

An explosion of pain suddenly shot through the mouse’s back, and it jerked with a squeak, moving to dash back to cover. 

But with every movement, that pain coursing through its spine seemed to only grow, feeling something tug at its back every time it tried to move away. The helplessness made the mouse only panic more, struggling more desperately, and saw that something was on top of its tail, crushing it and and preventing the mouse from moving. 

A dark, brown shape loomed over the mouse and slowly lowered towards it. The mouse began squeaking desperately, and as the fingers firmly closed around the mouse’s body, it frantically bit at it, hoping the make the thing jerk back. The brown skin was tough though, and the mouse didn’t seem to be able to completely bite through it. 

Another dark shadow appeared in the mouse’s vision, and now completely helpless with a broken tail and an immobile body, the rodent could do nothing but squeak in terror as the second hand closed around its head and-

 

—-

 

_ Snap. _

Morris didn’t let himself flinch as he felt the tiny pop of the pest’s neck between his fingers. The creature finally stopped squirming, the heartbeat still faintly quivering against his gloves but noticeably slowed. 

Morris uncurled his palm, staring at the still-warm body resting in it. He waited patiently, counting up to thirty seconds, before he finally felt the thrum of magic seeping in to the lines in his palm. 

The desert mouse stirred, sitting back up and leaning its small head back to stare at its master. The black beady eyes looked the same as when the creature was alive, and with the bloodless death it looked like a completely ordinary rodent. 

It was exactly what Morris needed. 

“I think that’s enough mice.”

_ “That’s a little over a dozen of them. Are you sure we need that many for just a simple travelling circus?” _

“I’m erring on the side of caution. And it’s not as if these scouts will cease to be useful once I’m done here, it’ll still be a while before they decompose.”

_ ”Except for the bloody ones.” _

“Of course.” Morris rolled his eyes at the snarky tone. He had struggled to quickly kill the first few mice he’d caught, and ended up pulling out his knife on them. 

Needless to say, it didn't look natural to see them scampering around, and thus he made sure they were properly hidden when they entered into the travelling circus. 

He listened on the muffled cheers of the crowds inside, and took a deep breath to steel his nerves. He had already gotten a look at the general layout of the stage, but other than that he was working in the dark. 

He could hear their squeaks echoing in his skull alongside the noises inside the tent as he slowly approached the back of the tent. Each one was ordered to speak up if they saw someone passing by, giving Morris a general sense of who was where. 

Morris pulled Clarence’s skull from his bag, looking down at it resting in his palm. 

_ “Are you ready?” _

“Even if I did, I don’t have a choice,” Morris shrugged, bending down to bury Clarence in the sand. By the time he was done, only an eye socket stuck out of the earth. 

“I’ll be back soon, tell me if you find anyone entering through here; it’ll be my only exit.”

_ “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you updated.” _

Morris nodded, standing back up and looking at the opening of the tent. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it aside and entered. 

 

—-

 

The thundering applause and muffled voices from behind the curtain made Morris uneasy and tense. Every now and then he’d hear a cannon fire, making the necromancer jump and wonder what in the world they were even  _ doing  _ out there. 

_ That doesn’t matter. What matters is they get a lot of money for it.  _ He reminded himself, ducking around a shelf and scanning the area. 

He could hear Clarence mumbling at the edge of his mind—nothing too urgent or important, but Morris still listened intently, at the very least to let the familiar voice calm his nerves. 

There was one more room he had yet to explore, the squeaking from the mice letting him know that no one was around it. It seemed to be the ringmaster’s room, no doubt the person they’d trust with their profits. 

Another cheer erupted from the other side of the tent, louder than any other, and Morris hurried into the room, his eyes quickly drawn to the large chest amongst the costumes and lit mirror. He knelt down beside it, drawing out a shrapnel of bone and bringing the thing to life in his palm. It began to move on its own, floating into the lock and dancing back and forth as Morris attempted to guide it. 

He kept his gaze focused on the piece of bone, the world drowning out as he carefully listened to the gentle clicks and tinks of the metal. Eventually, he heard one last  _ click  _ and world came back into sharp focus, like a bubble popping in his ear. He gently lifted the chest’s lid, his heart filling with exhilaration at the sight of dozens of green bills and shining coins. 

It wasn’t until the light reflecting in the money vanished did Morris realize that Clarence had been calling for his attention. 

“ _ -the show ended! _ ”

The necromancer barely turned around before he felt something collide into the side of his skull and everything went dark. Moments before the impact, he found himself with the time to think:  _ Is that a beard? _

 

-—-

 

The smells were what brought Morris back sooner than anything else; a musty mix of hay, dust, and bread, along with the faint edges of meat behind a strong, overpowering sour smell of waste. All the smells of an animal—a live one. 

Morris eyes snapped open, his worsening headache thankful for the darkness that met him. The rest of him—his paranoia, his intellect, his curiosity—was thankful for the beam of light shining through the door in the corner of his eye. He groaned a little, trying his best to sit up as more of his senses returned to him. He felt the old and dead grass underneath his fingers as he pushed himself up, and the rough scratching of rope wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

“Hey, boss, the kid’s finally awake!” 

Morris flinched at the sudden noise, his back straightening as he tried to look at his surroundings: they were nothing but a blurry mess. He blinked, rubbing at the sand in his eye and looked around. Cage. He was in an empty cage. As his vision cleared more, he saw several shadows staring up at him through bars. He furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Took you long enough. Seems Bertha hit you harder than expected,” a small, gravelly voice spoke up, and Morris looked down to the smallest shadow, clad in a dark suit and tall top hat. 

White teeth flashed in the dark as the man gave a wicked grin. Morris rubbed his eyes again, his sight readjusting to the dark and he was finally able to see the group of people in front of him clearly:

The first one to catch Morris’ eye was a large, broad-shouldered woman in a yellow skin tight suit with white highlights. It took him a moment to realize that she also had a beard, and Morris’ headache throbbed a little at the memory of her. 

The second was a Y’dalan man (the sight made Morris’ eyes widen) with thin facial hair and a turquoise vest, a whip in one hand and the other resting on his hip. 

Next to him was a woman in a red shirt and a wide brim hat, brown hair brushing up against her shoulders. Her palms were resting on two separate holsters on each side of her hip, and Morris kept his gaze focused on them for a few seconds. 

The last three he noticed were shorter, standing in front of the former. The first was a small clown, and next to the two of them were two men with ratty facial hair. Based on their similarities they seemed to be related—one in a helmet, and the other in a top hat with a much larger mustache. 

“I suppose we should formally introduce ourselves,” The suited brother tapped his cane. “We’re the Twindleweed Brothers--Harry and Bailey--and this is Bertha, Lazarus, Trixie, and Killjoy. I’m sure you’ve heard of our little circus, considering you tried to  _ steal  _ from us.”

Bailey flashed a glare towards Morris at the last line, and the necromancer responded with his own, twisting his hands in the ropes once more to test how tightly they were tied: they barely moved.

“But I’m sure you didn’t realize that’s it’s still only a bit of a side job to our bounty hunting. And  _ look  _ what we found after the show!”

Morris froze as he saw a sheet of paper waved in front of the bars, proudly displaying a rough sketch of his own tired face with a minor reward listed below. Bailey turned the wanted poster in his hand, observing the price and humming happily. “Not bad, our circus could always use a few more extra pennies.”

Mori swallowed, his skin turning cold and clammy, and he clenched his fists in an attempt to stop their shaking.  _ Lil’ Phil. Looks like his family figured out what happened.  _ He could feel sweat gathering in his palms and collar, and he wondered if it was from anxiety or the fever. 

Baileys glanced at the top of the tent, as if he could see the night sky on the other side. “It’s late, we’ll deal with you in the morning,” He twirled his cane. “See ya!”

Morris slowly watched as the entourage made their way out of the tent, closing the flap and leaving the necromancer in darkness. He pressed his lips together, looking back down at his hands and twisting them around in the rope, as if the knots had loosened in the last minute he’d checked. He lifted his head, listening intently: he knew it wouldn’t help him listen for any of his vassals or for Clarence, but he liked to imagine it did. 

Silence from the skull, something he only did when he got tired of speaking in the hopes that Morris would respond.  _ How long have I been unconscious? _

His speculation was cut off as he heard a faint, distant squeak echo in his thoughts. He quickly sat up, almost falling over after remembering his tied ankles, looking around in the dark tent. Soon enough, two bright, beady eyes shone in the darkness as his eyes adjusted, and Morris couldn’t help but grin. 

“Come over here,” He whispered, his voice painfully hoarse and he briefly wondered if the circus troupe was nearby to hear him. Of course, it turned out to not matter, as he quickly devolved into a fit of loud, echoing coughs. The mouse didn’t respond for a moment, and Morris repeated himself a little more loudly. 

He sighed in relief as he saw the small brown body scamper across the dirt and towards the cage as Morris coughed some more, climbing up the wooden wheels and easily squeezing through the metal bars. When the thing hopped into his outstretched palms, he could feel the cold claws gripping onto his skin, the lack of the heartbeat barely noticeable. 

_ It hasn’t even begun to decompose, which means it hasn’t been too long then, only several hours.  _

He smacked his lips together, his throat feeling unbearably dry.  _ It sure feels like that long.  _ He frowned, wondering how long Clarence had been calling for him in that time, before eventually giving up. 

_ Looks like I’ll have to find him and apologize.  _ He glanced back down at the mouse. “Bite through the rope,” he instructed, his voice wheezing. 

The pest obliged, the tiny chirps of its gnawing the only noise in the large, empty tent. Eventually the mouse snapped through the binds around his wrists, and he rubbed at the red marks as he stuck out his ankles for the mouse to bite through next. 

After the signature snap of the breaking ropes, Morris stood up and immediately regretted the decision. His head filled with lights, and he didn’t even realize his body was swaying until his arm hit the side of the cage for support. He gripped onto the bars tightly, looking down at his shaking knees through the murkiness of his headache.  _ I need to get some more water,  _ was all he could think. 

Rubbing his eyes with one hand in a futile attempt to clear the starsat the edge of his vision, Morris finally took a good, long look of his cage. 

The thing was mostly empty, save for the hay carpeting the bottom of the cage—unhelpful, his brain supplied. He observed the flat, red walls on either side of the cage and guessed he was in some sort of animal’s cage. The closed exit on the top seemed to confirm it, most likely being a hole for feeding. 

Morris wrinkled his nose for a moment, wondering how long ago it’d been used, before freezing in realization.  _ If the thing in here was a carnivore, or even better, died in here itself, perhaps there are dead pieces left around? _

Morris let go of the bars, falling to his hands and knees (he winced as his headache throbbed from the jostling), pressing his palms into the smooth floor underneath the hay and sliding them around, feeling for anything. 

After a few seconds of frantic sifting, Morris felt something long and dry bump into his hand, and he gently pulled it out of the pile of hay. It was a long, curved bone, mostly like the rib of a cow, or at least an animal of that size. His face split into a wide grin. 

He shifted the rib to his right palm, feeling the magic spark through the dried bone, and the thing twitched in his grip. 

He glanced up at the closed door, narrowing his eyes: there was no doubt that the thing was locked on the other side. He picked at the looser pieces of bone on the rib, snapping off a thin sliver. He gripped it tightly in his hand, relieved to feel it move on its own. He opened his palm, seeing the shard of bone float above, and he quietly pointed to the top of the cage. The thing flew off immediately, slipping through the bars of the cage and vanishing over the top of the cage. 

Taking a deep breath, Morris reflexively closed his eyes in an attempt to hide their glow. He knew it didn’t really matter considering there wasn’t anyone around to watch, but he found it easier to concentrate with his eyes closed anyway. 

He listened intently as the bone shard tapped against the metal of the lock, inserting itself into the keyhole and twisting around. Morris leaned against the wall, sliding down as his thoughts became more intertwined with the dead bone, the slight clicking like drum beats in his skull. 

Morris wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the lock finally gave a loud snap as it popped open, but it was likely quite a while, considering how much his back protested as he slowly sat back up. He prodded at the lid with the rib bone, feeling satisfied as the thing lifted up and landed on its other side, leaving the whole wide open. 

Narrowing his eyes, Morris adjusted his grip on the bone and bent his knees. The actual jumping was far more tiresome than he expected, and didn’t raise him nearly enough to actually reach the hole, but luckily his focus was on his hands as the rib bone jerked upward, pulling the necromancer higher and higher. 

As soon as his hands could reach, Morris desperately grabbed the edges of the exit, clambering onto the top of the cage, the rib clattering at his side as he took deep, gasping breaths from the physical exertion. His vision was completely obscured with flickering stars, and he swore he could feel his heartbeat more in his head than his chest. 

_ This fever is only getting worse,  _ he thought miserably.  _ I need some water at the very least, and  _ fast. 

_ Should I perhaps contact that bartender again?  _ He thought, slowly lowering himself off of the cart with the help of the rib bone. He let go when he was about a foot off the ground, immediately regretting the action as his knees buckled underneath him and his mind was clouded once more from the sudden jolt. 

He took another deep breath, pushing himself up with the rib bone like it was a cane, and glanced over at the exit.  _ They don’t know you’re out. Just make your escape, find Clarence, and then find someplace to hide. Or should I wait for the circus to leave before digging Clarence back up?  _ He took slow, deliberate steps towards the light shining between the flaps of the exit to the tent. He felt like some poor, old man, and a small voice in his head wondered if that meant he was like Kerr now.  _ They couldn’t have possibly found him, could they?  _

The trip across the circus floor and to the exit was a long, slow process of headaches and coughs through his dehydrated throat that made him wince at the pain. Each step was another pulse in his headache, and the slow silence left Morris to stew in his anxieties of the wanted poster, the circus, Clarence, and the dozen other things that had happened just that week. Not to mention, his mind wouldn’t stop tasting the dirt and dust that had gathered in his mouth.

Morris didn’t care that there was still a whole circus to escape as he reached the tent’s flap, feeling only relief as he pulled the fabric back and was faced with another wave of pain as the light filled his vision and blinded him. 

He winced, blocking the light with a hand, the rib bone trembling underneath the large amount of weight that he was now settling on the thing. 

As the light finally started to dim in his vision, he was able to lower his hand and get a good view of the scene. 

Standing in front of him were Bailey and Bertha, with the former’s arms crossed and the latter smirking. They had clearly been waiting for him. 

Morris felt his heart stop. He heard the rib bone crack a little. 

Bailey twirled his cane, leaning forward on it with a sly grin. 

“Congratulations kid, you’re hired.”

He didn’t hear Bailey. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he promptly passed out without a beat of hesitation. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I decided to go with the idea that Clarence is actually somewhat magical, since the magical music box was afraid of him. Of course, it also could've been afraid because it's been established that it's not that smart, but by the time I realized that I'd already lost control of the idea so here's the first chapter.


End file.
